


On Holy Ground

by Atanvarne (asecretchord)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:46:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asecretchord/pseuds/Atanvarne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If I've had the time to hide all these goddamned things, you have the time to find them. Fuck, Sean, would it hurt you to just play along for once? Do I ask that much of you? I don't expect you to come to openings or readings or visit the set, though God knows I've invited you enough times." Viggo sounded pissed, full of righteous indignation. It had been too long...</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Holy Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'ed. All mistakes of fact, fiction, grammar, syntax or credulity are mine. If you follow the GPS coordinates in this story, you will NOT end up where Sean ended up.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** In theory, if a few dozen monkeys were given an equal number of typewriters, eventually they'd produce a work of fiction. My thanks to the San Diego Zoo for the use of their lower primates. Fiction, fiction, fiction!

*** ** __**  
  
 ** _May 2002_**  
  
With a sigh of contentment, Sean leaned back from the table and tossed his napkin next to his dinner plate. The food was delicious and the atmosphere…. He glanced again at the arched ceiling soaring thirty, forty feet overhead, took in the stained glass windows depicting traditional biblical scenes and got lost in thought.  
  
Viggo watched the play of expressions that crossed Sean's face, his green eyes reflecting both emotion and candlelight. Wistful longing chased off quiet desperation while a spark of hope illuminated patience's path and Viggo knew a king's ransom would be a paltry sum for Sean's thoughts.  
  
The abrupt appearance of their server with the dessert tray yanked Sean forcefully back into the here and now and he rocked back forward in surprise. "Coffee?" he asked Viggo, declining treacle tart or poached pears. "We've a couple hours yet 'til London and there's no need for haste."  
  
"Yeah, coffee'd be great." Viggo looked up and ordered two cups of americano with cream, please, then smiled back at Sean. "I'm glad we stopped here. Your mum was right; well worth the detour."  
  
"She knows I've a thing for old churches," Sean replied. "Don't know why, really. Hardly ever spent time in church, even as a lad. Weren't my thing, all that talk of sin and loving one's neighbour. I prefer my conversations with the Almighty to be between Him and me." He glanced at Viggo and it was almost painfully shy. "The Lord never really leaves His church," he said so softly Viggo had to strain to hear him. "You just need to know how to listen." Sean's eyes drifted upwards again before he reluctantly pulled his attention back to his companion.  
  
"Hmm," Viggo nodded noncommittally, a bit lost in thought himself. He studied their surroundings and tried to get a sense of the peace Sean claimed resided in such places. It was a restaurant, a bit busy for a Wednesday night, but filled with the usual murmur of conversation and clatter of dishes. It didn't speak to him the way it spoke to Sean, but an idea sparked as Viggo watched Sean sip his coffee.  
  
After returning to London Viggo engaged the services of an estate agent, and upon the gentleman's recommendation had hired a second in York and a third in Edinburgh. Each received the same set of instructions, was required to report monthly by telephone or fax, and time was not of the essence. It could be made of any material except brick. He hated brick; too many associations with cheap construction. And the bigger the better.  
  
On the 10th, 20th and 30th of each month, for 9 months, he had received similar reports...  
  
 _Dear Sir,  
  
I regret to inform you that no property meeting your specifications has been located. As I explained at our first meeting, these properties are quite rare and seldom appear on the market.  
  
Per your instructions, I will contact you again on the 10th day of next month.  
  
Most Sincerely,_  
  
...upon which Viggo crumbled the missive and sighed.

 

 

* * ** _June, 2003_** * * *  
  
Month after month Viggo received the same discouraging news, until at long last, while setting up an exhibit, one of the museum staff handed a slip of paper. "Please call Mairie at 44 (0) 1506 832 121. Not urgent, but she sounded excited about something." Viggo made his way to one of the office phones, racking his brain trying to remember who Mairie might be. The only recognizable part of the telephone number was country code 44, Great Britain, but he was fairly certain he didn't know a Mairie.  
  
He was, as usual when trying to attach a name to a message slip, wrong. He did know a Mairie and had received over a dozen messages with her name on them, one on the 30th of each month. He dialled and waited impatiently for someone to answer. At long last, after three rings, someone finally answered.  
  
"Mairie Fraser."  
  
"This is Mr. Mortensen. You left a message? What did you want?" he asked with the air of someone resenting an interruption.  
  
Such a friendly man, she thought, grounding out a cigarette with a bit more vehemence than the circumstances strictly required. "I found a property that might suit. It's in the highlands near Kyle of Lochalsh. It's stone, and the glass is mostly intact. There is a small rectory on the property as well, but it's in worse shape."  
  
"Mairie!" Viggo exclaimed with new-found warmth. "Now I know who you are. Thanks for calling. How are you?"  
  
The small talk continued for a few minutes until Mairie went into busy professional mode. "If you have access to a computer I can send you some photographs. What did you intend to do with the property?"  
  
He had no answer for that. "Is it important?"  
  
"Aye. The city council and the Church will need to approve your plans for the building, grant variances, deconsecrate it and move the bodies."  
  
There was dead silence as Viggo digested that statement. "Bodies? What bodies?" To say that Viggo was more than slightly alarmed would be an understatement.  
  
A long pause. "Mr. Mortensen, you wanted a church with a spire, clerestory and stained glass. A church yard with a rectory, and a large lot. You wanted a property that was not in a city centre and was not made of brick. I found a property that might suit, but here in Scotland, most churchyards are burial sites. The remains of those buried here will need to be re-interred because they will no longer be on holy ground."  
  
An obscene number of telephone calls, faxes, registered letters, affidavits and contracts followed his offer and proposal for the site. And after all the finagling, negotiations, applications, and one appearance (more for the sake of curiosity, he thought) in front of an unusually well attended town council meeting, the deal nearly fell through when he tried to put Sean on the title, especially since he didn't know Sean's legal name. Collecting that small piece of information took a ridiculous number of telephone calls. Not even Sean's mother knew for certain.  
  
But the deal had closed, the contracts had been signed and Viggo was now the proud owner of an old church. Honey coloured sandstone rose above the tops of the trees. Narrow stained glass windows lined the nave and clerestory, and a large, arched window depicting both Old and New Testament scenes was set at the chancel. Inside, the nave from end to end was more than 200 feet long and the ceiling had to be at least fifty feet over his head. The tower had windows and spires and he loved it.  
  
Walking through on the final inspection, Viggo made a list of the repairs that needed to be made immediately. The roof of the church was in good shape, fortunately, but several of the windows needed repair. He also arranged to have the walls replastered and some of the stones in the floor reset. Every lock was to be replaced, gardeners hired and he arranged for the village's only security service to drive by occasionally to ensure the place remained in one piece.  
  
The roof on the rectory, though, needed immediate attention and he wasn't quite certain what he should do about utility service since it would be unoccupied for the foreseeable future. He decided while driving Mairie back to her office that he would spend the night there. He wanted to see if the property spoke to him about what it wanted, to get a sense of its personality, to see if any of its past inhabitants would provide him with some inspiration.  
  
"Mr. Mortensen, you are aware, of course, the buildings are not furnished?"  
  
Yes, he knew. The contents of the buildings had taken up seven pages of the contract for sale, and each clause had been reviewed ad nauseam. But he'd slept in worse places and with less planning, although he didn't volunteer that information to Ms. Fraser. Some things a man just needed to keep private. He drove out to the site; parked and walked through the vestry door, backpack in hand, alone inside the church for the first time.  
  
It was silent. No electricity hummed through speakers or lighting. No sounds of breathing or whispering. No footfalls, no lips moving in prayer or song. Waning sunlight filtering through the stain glass made a kaleidoscopic pattern of colour on the grey stone floor, adding warmth, adding depth, adding its own story to those the walls told. He felt his soul expand to fill the space as the serenity of his surroundings filled him with peace. He extracted his journal and his jacket from within his pack, tossed the jacket on the empty floor, sat on it and began to write.  
  
He awoke painted in blues, reds and purples, squinting from the morning light hitting him in the face through the nave window. He was lying on his pen, the journal in which he'd been writing pushed to one side. He sat up, blinked, and realized he was older than he felt. Served him right being so sore, sleeping on a stone floor. As he stretched muscles grown stiff from inactivity he thought about phase two. No doubt about it, Sean would think he'd gone mad. He laughed out loud, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling, causing him to laugh even harder.

 

 

 

* * * ** _July, 2003 The Game Begins_** * * *  
  
"Mr. Bean, package for you." The production intern stuck her head in his trailer with trepidation, as though she was expecting a tongue lashing to follow. "Sorry for disturbing you," although to her eyes it didn't look like he was doing anything other than daydreaming. Well, they'd said he was one of the quiet ones. She beat a hasty retreat before Sean had a chance to thank her.  
  
He looked at the sender information. According to the typed Fed Ex label it had been, what? That couldn't be correct. He had not shipped a package to himself and he wondered if he should turn the damned thing over to security. They were usually pretty good about scanning and tracking packages though. Curiosity got the better of him and locating a knife, he set about attacking the packing tape.  
  
After ten minutes of slicing through countless layers of wrapping, he knew one thing. Whoever had wrapped this was a lunatic. That narrowed it down to a stalker or Viggo. He crossed Orlando off the list simply because he saw the kid every day. Every single goddamned day. Repeatedly. Over and over again as though Sean had adopted him. _Peace_ and _quiet_ were foreign words to Orli and while Sean didn't mind hitting the pubs after work, he was too old to close them every single night. And despite Orli's opinion to the contrary, he did not want to live vicariously through the young pup.  
  
Finally, after cutting through both a half a dozen layers of tape and paper, as well as his thumbnail, he got the package open. He held the box in his hand, a GPS locator, and picked up the note that had fluttered to the ground.  
  


_I saw your face in the morning  
Eyes unfocused  
Still seeing the dreams that  
Hold you close  
As I long to.  
  
I read your thoughts in the afternoon  
Eyes knowing  
Seeking me. With a look  
Keeping me at hand  
And I remember your touch.  
  
I sensed your desire in the evening  
Eyes darkening  
With passion unmasked. Telling me  
We belong together  
Are we ever truly apart?_

_  
  
_

_Sean, my heart, my soul, my joy,  
  
Can we not do this again next year? Too many nights apart. Too many miles between us. Too many words left unsaid. Too many too manys. I fear being selfish, but I know you feel it as well, all the too manys, when all that I want is to be able to feel your warmth under my fingertips, your breath hot on the nape of my neck. I hear the same need in your voice when we speak, and I imagine seeing it in your eyes.  
  
I spent a few days in London before the opening in Odense. The house is fine, but the gardens miss your touch. I share in their longing. I did not know of my addiction for you until this year when I've had to do without for too many days.  
  
The object in the box is a GPS locator. Go to these coordinates: 34.07329, -118.3832 before I get there if you can manage it, and say to whomever is there, " **Elen síla lumenn omentielvo.** " Yes, dear heart, it's Elvish, but it's book Elvish which only the purists would know. I suspect, though, that someone will recognize you and assist you before you need to wrap your tongue around the words. No, you cannot send someone, you must go yourself. If you need help with the locator, talk to the crew - someone will be able to show you how it works. Start with the location managers; they seem to like toys.  
  
There are three items you need to collect before 7 January, when you will receive the last, my gift to you. I have taken the liberty of reserving the entire weekend for the two of us. Dress warmly.  
  
I will join you on the set as soon as I can manage it. There are a few things needing my attention here.  
  
I hope batteries are included. I forgot to check.  
  
I want you and miss you so much it hurts.  
  
Always,  
Viggo_  
  
Sean read the letter three times, fighting off a wave of homesickness, and wondering what the fuck Viggo was up to. He's off his head, Sean thought. The weekend was coming up, though, and Orli'd been at him to surf. Maybe he could distract the kid with a high-tech game of hide and seek instead. He was too old for games. Whatever Viggo had in mind, it called for serious drinking. And a telephone call.  
  
After turning down several offers to hit the bars in Cabo, Sean went back to the hotel alone. He looked at his watch and tried to calculate the time of day in each of the possible time zones Viggo might be in. He wasn't even certain where in the whole wide world he was. Not knowing what else to do, he rang his house. The package, after all, had been shipped from London.  
  
He waited for the answering machine greeting to finish with its rather perfunctory message, then "It's me. If anyone is home, pick up, yeah?" Waited. "Hello?" "It's me, pick up the phone."  
  
"Hey!" Viggo's voice, breathless, as though he'd run to the phone from the heath. "How's Mexico?"  
  
"I hate Mexico," Sean groused. "Whole lotta nothin'. 'Cept _The Brad and Orli Show_. At least we're near the beach. Maybe I can drown him," Sean said darkly, kicking off his shoes and reclining on the sofa.  
  
"Which him? Brad or Orli?"  
  
"Orlando. Does he ever sleep?"  
  
Viggo laughed. "Sweetheart, do that and half the teenagers in the world will hunt you down. And from what I hear, that includes one of your own. I take it you got the package."  
  
"Yeah, I did. Why the hell did you send me a GPS locator? If there's ever anyone in the world who needs one of those things, it'd be you."  
  
"I have one. That's how I knew what numbers to write down. What are you bitchin' about? The hard part's already done. You just have to circle the globe, collect a few items and bring them with you on the 7 th of January."  
  
"Where am I supposed to meet you on the 7th?"  
  
"No hints! You won't find that out until you get the third clue." Viggo sounded giddy, almost as excited as a kid at Christmas.  
  
"Christ, Viggo. I don't have time for this shit." Sean exploded, his temper erupting like Vesuvius.  
  
"If I've had the time to hide all these goddamned things, you have the time to find them. Fuck, Sean, would it hurt you to just play along for once? Do I ask that much of you? I don't expect you to come to openings or readings or visit the set, though God knows I've invited you enough times." Viggo sounded pissed, full of righteous indignation. It had been too long.  
  
"You're right, you're right. Forget I said anything. Now, how do I do this?" Sean sounded apologetic, though he knew better than to actually say he was sorry. Viggo had beaten that out of him. Literally. Damned near scared him to death in the process as well, the one and only time Sean had ever seen Viggo completely lose his temper.  
  
Sean listened as Viggo explained the wonders of GPS technology. It consisted mainly of telling Sean to find the power button and seeing if there were any batteries in it, then reading the display. Both were safe from being invited to appear on the cover of _Scientific American_.  
  
"Once you know where you are, you just need to head towards the coordinates in the note."  
  
"Great explanation, luv," Sean sighed. "Just the clarity I've learned to expect from you. How do I know where I'm going?"  
  
"You don't, exactly. Just follow the numbers until they match."  
  
They spent another twenty minutes catching up on the time they had lost and missing each other in language so explicit it would make a phone sex operator blush. Sean reminded Viggo to wash the dishes he used while staying at the house and figured they'd see each other in September. After a protracted good-bye, he hung up, more depressed than when he'd called. He pulled the letter out of the envelope, read through it a time or two, and tossed it onto the coffee table.  
  
Staring at the display screen, Sean started pushing buttons, wishing Elijah was around. Now there was a techno-geek if ever one lived. If there were enough buttons on it, Elijah had one, and he was addicted to user's manuals. Sweet kid. Weird, but sweet. Orli, on the other hand, was about as technologically adept as he was. Therefore, he'd be the perfect companion for this weekend's little trek to God knows where.

 

 

* * **_July, 2003 A Secret Revealed_** * * *  
  
Sean called Orli's room and was surprised to find him there. At this time of night, Orli was usually on his second or third pint, deep into the dance scene at whatever bar he and Brad decided to hit, then after turning the place into a crime scene, they'd leave and move their travelling circus to a new establishment.  
  
Sean didn't even finish saying hello before Orli announced he was on his way over. Wonderful. Fifteen minutes later there was a knock on his door. He couldn't very well pretend he wasn't in. Orli knew better. He got up and stepped aside so that the kid could bound through the door and make himself at home on the small couch.  
  
"What's up?" Sean asked, somewhat surprised to watch Orlando stretched out on his back, draping one arm over his eyes. "Picked up some disease, that? You should be deep in yer third by now."  
  
"Fuck off. I'm knackered, mate."  
  
Sean could only stare at him. Orli tired was something that only happened in dreams or waking fantasies, never in real life. "Seriously, are you well?"  
  
Orlando nodded, but said nothing.  
  
"Here, then. Take a gander at this." Sean tossed the GPS device to the kid, who caught it deftly and started pressing buttons, staring at the display to see what happened.  
  
"What's it do?"  
  
"I was hopin' you could help me figure it out. You still surfin' on Saturday?"  
  
Orli nodded but didn't look terribly enthused. "Yeah, the hobbits are flying down for the weekend. Then we're all going up to L.A. Sunday evening. Dom and Billy have a meeting with a producer, but Lij and I are gonna surf at Santa Monica. I'm off for four whole days. Wanna come up with us?"  
  
"Lij is coming down? I didn't know he was in town," Sean said, meaning anywhere on the west coast of the US or Mexico. "I'm sure he can do this locator thing."  
  
"Why do you have one, anyway?" Orli was curious. This was not something Sean would get for himself, and he didn't think anyone else would get him one either. He glanced around and his eyes lit on the note. Hmmm, he thought, and wondered if Sean could be distracted long enough to give him a chance to look at it. He didn't make a habit of reading other people's mail per se. Just the people he knew. "Got anything to drink in the place?"  
  
"A few things. Whatcha want? Beer, ale, wine, Irn-Bru? Something harder?"  
  
"Got any wine open?" Perfect if he doesn't, Orli thought. Takes longer.  
  
"No, but I can open some. Is that what you're wanting, then?"  
  
Orli nodded and Sean padded off into the kitchenette, glad he had a suite. He looked at the couple of bottles of wine he had and chose the pinot noir. Zinfandel was just too heavy. It was hot enough already. He found the corkscrew, pulled a couple of glasses out of the cupboard and poured them each a glass. He carried the glasses and the bottle back into the front room, and felt his heart stop as he saw Orli reading the letter from Viggo. Fuck.  
  
Orli read through it a second time, not certain he'd read it correctly. He struggled enough with reading and thought maybe he had misinterpreted something. Nope, all the key words and phrases were there and Viggo had even written a poem. _My heart, my soul, my joy? Miss you so much it hurts?_ He started reading it again when he caught a glimpse of Sean standing in the archway, watching him reading the note.  
  
"Here's yer wine. Think Lij will help with tha'?" Cool, calm, though his heart was racing and he fought to keep the typical Boromir expression on his face, the expression Orli knew best.  
  
"Um. Yeah. I think I'd just write down the numbers for him though. Unless you planned to show this to Lij?" Orlando inquired, holding the note out to Sean.  
  
Sean's temper flared. "Christ, yer a cocky bastard!" He snatched the letter from Orli's outreached hand. "Changed yer name, did ye? Or did ye just get a wee bit curious? Did ye notice the letter started with 'Sean?'" He didn't care who saw him with Viggo, where they were, or what they were doing at the time provided they were in a public place. But he didn't want rumours–pernicious, invasive, rapacious rumours that took on a life of their own and didn't care who or what got destroyed in the process.  
  
"Actually, it starts with some poetry..." Orlando responded, sitting up to make room for Sean. It wasn't much of a defence but it would have to do. Orli's mind grappled with the realization Sean and Viggo were a couple. He'd had no idea, and if he didn't know, then the hobbits didn't either. How they had managed to keep such a secret was beyond his ability to comprehend.  
  
Sean sat down next to Orli. "I'm going to ask you to not say anything to the others." He stopped and tried to collect his thoughts. "I'm going to sound like a bloody git, but there's no gettin' 'round that. We have one rule–anyone who find out, finds out from one of us."  
  
Orli whistled softly and ran his fingers through his hair. "How long?"  
  
"Since Moria. Now, what time are the hobbits gettin' in?"  
  
"Friday, about 1:15 or so. They're meeting me at the trailer, then we're gettin' dinner. We'll be on the beach at sun-up, surf 'til we drop, sleep, party, then do it all over on Sunday. Flight out of here leaves at 5:00 in the afternoon or so and gets to LA about 6:30. Then flying back Tuesday around noon. Sure you don't want to come with us?"  
  
Orli's itinerary made Sean tired just thinking about it. When did he get old? Suddenly it seemed like a few pages had fallen out of the book of his life. He was too young to feel old and he didn't like it. Viggo had given him an elaborate treasure hunt and all he'd done was bitch. Orli had offered time and again to have fun and he'd turned down nearly every invitation. With a sudden flash of insight he knew instantly the reason behind his protracted ill-humour. He missed Viggo beyond all measure. And Orli's presence had been a subconscious reminder of what was missing.  
  
"Mind if I tag along for dinner?" Sean asked. "I can ask Lij about this thing and see if he knows where I need to head to. See Dom and Billy again. Think anyone'd mind?"  
  
A big grin lit Orli from the inside. "I'd have asked earlier but I thought you'd say no." They talked for about an hour and if Orli noticed any change in Sean's mood he was kind enough not to say anything. Sean declined the surfing invitation, but decided to show up for the weekend football game. It would either kill him or rejuvenate him. He hoped for the latter.  
  
As they had guessed, Lij spent an enthusiastic hour over dinner explaining how the GPS locator worked and what geo-caching was all about. "It's like global hide and seek. You post coordinates for where you left your cache and people go find it. Sometimes there are logs and stuff and you write a quick note about the search. Some of them are easy to locate, but some people leave 'em in tree tops or in caves or under rocks. Those are the ones that can take hours to find."  
  
Elijah took a large bite of his enchilada and continued with his speech. "People put all kinds of things in their cache boxes; pins, coins, mementos, really bad movies," thinking of the copy of _Ishtar_ he'd found in one. "I leave signed Topps cards and notes," he explained. "What are you looking for, do you know?"  
  
"No. Viggo just sent me numbers and a code phrase."  
  
Billy, who with Dom had been pressing buttons as though programming a VCR, looked at Sean quizzically. "A code phrase? Why?" Sean merely looked at him. "Okay, dumb question. It's Viggo, right?"  
  
"Do you know the numbers?" Elijah asked as he drummed his fingers on the table top.  
  
Sean pulled a piece of hotel note paper out of his pocket and handed it to Lij. He had carefully copied down the coordinates, even going so far as to read them to Orlando to make certain he'd gotten them right. There was no way under the sun he was showing the letter to Elijah. Lij glanced at the numbers, 34.07329, -118.3832. He scooted his chair next to Sean and snatched the GPS out of Dom's hands.  
  
"Okay, according to this, we're here. 23.455, -110.2042. We need to go 11 degrees north and 8 degrees west. The more digits you have, the easier it is to find the exact location." Lij looked at the numbers on the paper, then looked up. "Uh, Sean, this is somewhere near LA, Southern California anyway."  
  
"Are you certain?"  
  
"Yeah, I live there. And I've done some caching. Definitely Southern Cal, man."  
  
Sean grinned and looked at Orli. "Looks like I'm going to LA."

 

 

* * **_June 2003 Exploration_** * * *  
  
Orlando not only gave Sean the flight information, he called and made all the arrangements, including getting Sean the seat next to his own. Sean was a lousy flyer, even on commercial aircraft, though he had gotten a great deal better in recent years. "You're all set. We've a car coming to pick us up around 3:30 pm. Meet us in the lobby, right? And don't forget the GPS thing or you'll never find out where you're s'posed to go."  
  
The flight was mercifully smooth, no turbulence whatsoever. And the pilot even managed a decent landing. Still, Sean maintained one hand on an armrest and neither love nor money would induce him to unbuckle his seatbelt. Orlando kept up a light-hearted banter, for which Sean was entirely grateful. On the whole, he'd rather fly with Orlando. Viggo spent entirely too much time in quiet contemplation.  
  
Sean spent the morning at the beach in Santa Monica, joined in a pick-up football game, soccer he reminded himself - when in Rome - while the kids surfed. They packed up before noon, about the time the marine layer burnt off and the sun worshippers and tourists with little sense staked out tiny plots of sand for their very own.  
  
After getting fed, cleaned up and changed, Sean, Orli and Lij piled into Lij's car and went in search of Sean's mysterious cache. Sean sat up front as Lij drove, calling off numbers as they roamed the streets. After about 45 minutes of driving, and a couple of close calls involving oncoming traffic and one-way streets, they had finally reached the proper latitude. A left turn drew them ever closer to the proper longitude. When they were within a couple thousandths on both numbers, Orli shouted to Lij to stop the car.  
  
"What?!" Lij shrieked, diving into a parking spot on the street, a rarity for which he was not properly grateful.  
  
"Look where we are!" Orli exclaimed. "Sean, why would Viggo send you here?"  
  
Sean looked at Lij. "Do you know what he's on about?" They both peered through the windshield, not understanding what had Orlando all in a lather. Orli reached forward, palmed Sean's head and forced him to look to his left. There on the wall of the building across the street were the words "New Line Cinema" as well as the familiar clapper logo.  
  
Two pairs of eyes filled with questions gazed at Sean, who was equally perplexed. Why, indeed, would Viggo send him here? The three of them walked into the lobby of the building and went up to the New Line offices. A perky receptionist, apparently perkiness was a line in the job description, greeted them as they walked through the glass double doors into a shrine for _The Lord of the Rings_ and _Terminator 3_. Sean felt decidedly idiotic giving his name to Lydia (according to her nametag) since his image stared at her from three walls. Granted, it was a much smaller image than that of either of his companions, but still.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Bean, we were told to expect you," she beamed, nodded politely to Mr. Wood and Mr. Bloom, then ushered them through the door behind her desk. "Mr. Ordesky's office is on the seventh floor, turn right off the elevator, then to the end of the hall. Give your names to Barbara, his secretary." She swiped her magnetized ID card in a slot next to the elevator, then pressed the "UP" button.  
  
Barbara was the quintessential gatekeeper. They gave their names, produced photo identification, explained that Lydia had not given them Visitor badges, then sat in the waiting area while Barbara reminded Lydia that everyone not directly employed by New Line, "and that includes actors, directors, writers, et cetera must wear a badge at all times." Barbara turned cool eyes on Sean, then said. "There is a code phrase, Mr. Bean. I cannot let you into the office unless you provide it." Orlando and Elijah fought to maintain perfectly normal expressions; the prospect of hearing Sean's Elvish amused them to no end.  
  
Sean reached into his sport coat and extracted the letter that had come with the GPS locator and located the phrase. He hadn't had any Elvish lines, hence stumbled through it. "That's the best I can manage," he said, giving Barbara his warmest smile. As though that would make any difference. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees as her expression turned downright frosty, and Sean assumed that he must have denied her the pleasure of throwing them out. She picked up the phone, stabbed a button, then announced him.  
  
The door opened and Mark Ordesky greeted him and shook his hand while exchanging hellos with Elijah and Orlando. Sean beckoned to the pair as he started through the door, then looked at Barbara as though challenging her to stop them from coming in as well. They sat themselves around the conference table in Mark's office and glanced at each other, wondering what was to follow.  
  
None of them knew Mark Ordesky well, but they had all met at _Rings_ events and during filming. They chatted about their current projects; Mark was especially interested in _Troy_ , and it sounded like New Line had some intriguing projects in the works. After what he deemed was a suitable amount of chitchat, Sean said, "Mr. Ordesky, I regret taking up your time like this, but I am not quite certain why I am here."  
  
Mark laughed. "Call me Mark, please. For reasons known only to Viggo Mortensen, I have been demoted to delivery boy. He brought me a package with express instructions to deliver it directly to your hands, and to make arrangements so that it would be accessible around the clock. I have no idea why I was enlisted to do this, but he was quite insistent."  
  
He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked a cabinet in the oak credenza under the window. He returned with a large, flat box made of polished mahogany, set it in front of Sean, then handed him a slim gold key he extracted from his desk. Sean inserted the key in the lock, turned it, then opened the hinged box as the three men peered over his shoulder.  
  
At first, he thought he was looking at a photograph, though why Viggo would place one in a velvet lined box was unfathomable. A black and white image of himself, wearing a black long-sleeved polo shirt leaned against a wall of grey stone just inside an open door. He looked completely lost in thought, not all of them pleasant. The image itself measured approximately eleven by fourteen inches and was fully encased in a much larger sheet of Lucite. He didn't remember ever seeing the picture before, couldn't place where it had been taken. Viggo must have taken it, but he had taken thousands of photographs of Sean over the years. Where had they been that day?  
  
He lifted the Lucite out of the box by the edges and that's when he discovered it was not a photograph he'd been examining; it was exquisitely worked embroidery. He held it up to the light, turned it around, astonished that it looked exactly the same from both sides. Not a knot or stray piece of thread could be seen anywhere. The needlework was the finest he had ever seen. And it was stitched on a translucent piece of silk that caused the image to glow from within. "Christ, Sean, that's gorgeous," Orlando breathed.  
  
Sean's hands started to shake. He had never seen anything like this outside of a museum. Viggo had gone to a hell of a lot of trouble for this, for him. Mark took the Lucite from his hands and walked over to the window, Orlando and Elijah following. Sean glanced back in the box and noticed an envelope with his name on it.  
  
 _Dear Sean,  
  
For five hundred years people have gazed upon the Mona Lisa and wondered what thoughts were passing through her mind as she sat patiently for Leonardo. Her intriguing half-smile remains to this day a mystery. For over a thousand days I have looked upon this depiction, wondering what you were feeling, what you were thinking when the lens opened and captured your image. I can no more explain my fascination with this photo than I can reveal any great truths about Leonardo's subject, but it haunts me, Sean, and it has taken possession of my soul.  
  
A long while ago, I saw in a museum an image wrought in the same manner as the piece you are holding now. It is so seldom one looks upon perfection and I knew that if I ever found an image worthy of the effort I would commission a similar work. I can think of no better subject and no more suitable image than this one of you.  
  
It took me several years to discover where the work had been crafted and even longer before I found someone who had worked on the museum piece. I won't bore you with the details, but as you can see, I was successful. According to the person who served as my liaison, the work you are holding took almost 20,000 hours to create. It is completely handmade, including the silk upon which it is stitched and the threads used to form the picture.  
  
Guard this well, Sean. It is one of a kind and it cannot be duplicated. Please do not ship this to London. I would prefer it travels with one of us. Buy it a seat on the plane if you have to. Bring it with you on the 7 th.  
  
Always,  
Viggo  
  
P.S. I'd like you to go here before the end of September, otherwise I fear you will not get there at all. 47.68114, -116.71219._  
  
Sean drew an unsteady breath, then on trembling limbs joined the others at the window. Orlando gave him a hug and whispered in his ear, "You are one lucky bastard." Lij looked like he wanted to put the thing under a microscope and reverse-engineer the whole thing. Mark simply continued to hold it aloft and stare at it.  
  
"I have never seen anything like this," Mark murmured. "What did the note say?" Sean pulled it back out of the envelope and read parts of it to the others. Not the most romantic letter he'd ever received, but he'd forgive Viggo for the omitted hearts and flowers. The tapestry more than made up for it.  
  
"I'd make an offer for this if I didn't know I'd be wasting my breath," Mark declared, his eyes still appraising the portrait. Five figures at the very least, he mused. "This is a phenomenal piece. I don't know why Viggo chose me to be the bearer, but tell him I am honoured."  
  
"I will, Mark," Sean said, reclaiming the work and placing it carefully back into the box. He locked the case and pocketed the key. "It was good seeing you again, and if I ever find out why Viggo left this with you, I _will_ let you know."  
  
Sean ran his fingers lightly over the polished wood then picked it up as the three of them made their good-byes. Sean's heart was pounding in his chest. He didn't collect images of himself as a rule, in fact there were only half a dozen pictures of Sean in his house. But this was different. The image itself was one that Sean would have chosen to hang in his office, but this gift was unlike anything he had ever received. This gift was commissioned to satisfy some deep need in Viggo, then given to him in trust. And he would guard that trust with his entire being.  
  
Orlando, a romantic-in-training Sean thought, offered to carry it for him as though it were a talisman of some sort, but Sean could not bring himself to relinquish it even for the short trek to the car. Elijah wanted to read the note. "Fuck, Sean, what'd you ever do for Viggo?" he asked as he handed it back.  
  
"Anything he wanted," Sean remarked casually. "So where is the next place I've got to go?" hoping the question would distract Elijah from asking more probing questions.  
  
"North and east. Further north than east." Lij thought for a moment, extracting some piece of trivia that no one in his right mind would know off the top of his head. "Let's see. 69 miles per degree of latitude. 13 degrees north." He did the math in his head. "You need to go just under 900 miles north and," another pause while he figured out the longitude, "and about 80 miles east."  
  
Orli looked at Lij with an expression somewhere between fear and wonder. "There are times you scare the piss out of me. So where is this place?"  
  
Elijah confessed he did not know. "Spokane, maybe?" At the blank faces he clarified, "The eastern part of the state of Washington in the Pacific Northwest if that helps any. Maybe a bit farther east."  
  
Sean knew instantly. The cabin. It had to be, but he wouldn't have time to travel until October at the earliest, and Viggo wanted him to find "it" by the end of September. It had, he thought, all the earmarks of a catastrophe waiting to happen.

 

 

* * ** _August, 2003 No Hints, But Promises_** * * *  
  
Viggo had finally shown up around the tenth of the month and their reunion had been full of sound and fury, signifying everything. Sean would remember for a very long time the day Vig had arrived without warning on the set. He'd vacillated between seasoned professional and gibbering idiot, blowing lines and missing marks for well over half an hour until the AD had called for a much-needed break.  
  
"Impressive work, Sean. Where'd you train again, Rocco's Correspondence School of Fine Arts?" Viggo asked as he enfolded Sean in a giant hug. Damn, but Sean was looking fine; tanned, fit, very nice set of whiskers. Sean all but dragged Viggo to the trailer he shared with Eric Bana and Peter O'Toole, pushed Viggo against the wall and kissed him until they were both moaning and desperate.  
  
"Inside," Viggo hissed, shoving Sean through the door. "See if you can bring this costume home with you, please," Viggo implored as he knelt in front of Sean and pulled down the black briefs he was wearing under the skirt. "You look damned fine in a dress," he said as he raised the hem and took Sean's cock in his mouth. At that moment Sean would have promised him anything, but the heat and pressure of Viggo's mouth was making coherent thought impossible.  
  
Sean's hips began to move of their own accord as Viggo started humming deep in his throat, spreading fire out from Sean's loins into his legs and spine, and making the small hairs on the back of his neck rise in anticipation. Sean clutched Viggo's shoulders convulsively as the deep muscles in his thighs started to shake. Viggo felt Sean start to tense and increased the pressure of his mouth. Sean came, violently, so hard on the back of Viggo's throat that he started to choke.  
  
Both men jumped at a sudden pounding on the trailer door. Sean, still in the throes of orgasm, pulled back and winced as the final jet of semen splattered on Viggo's chin. He felt uncontrollable laughter start to bubble up as the first A.D. began shouting. "Bean, what the fuck are you doing in there? I have six hundred people standing around waiting for you, and god help you if I find out you're in there getting a hand-job from one of the make-up girls."  
  
"Do you want to tell him, or should I?" Viggo remarked dryly, wiping the come off his face with a small towel.  
  
"I'll tell him," Sean replied, grinning broadly. "He'll never believe me. You, on the other hand, aye, he'd believe you, right enough." Sean leaned over and kissed Viggo tenderly, then pressed his hand against Viggo's cheek. "Thanks for bleedin' off some of the tension."  
  
Viggo laughed nearly to the point of tears. "Is that what it's called now? Bleeding off tension? I'm going to have to remember that."  
  
Sean shot him a withering glance. "Aye, good name for it, yeah? Now are you wanting to come back out to the set or wait here? Looks like we'll be a couple more hours yet."  
  
Outside, Gerry was still shouting at Sean to move his fat hairy ass before he called Wolfgang. "Shut it, mate. I'm coming," Sean bellowed back. "You interrupted the best blow-job of me life," Sean fumed, stepping out of the trailer, Viggo following close behind.  
  
Gerry stared suspiciously at the pair looking back at him in quiet amusement. "What's that saying about mad Englishmen?" he muttered. "Are you ready to work now?"  
  
"It's mad dogs and Englishmen," Sean corrected, then nodded, and the cool professional Viggo loved so much was back in action.  
  
They wrapped about a quarter to eight and both men were ravenously hungry. Food sounded good as well. Sean's driver took them back to the hotel, and as maniacal as Sean thought the driver was, the trip was still too slow to suit him. The fastest the driver had ever made the journey was eighteen minutes. Today the driver had shaved two minutes from his best time and his passenger was acting as though it had taken hours. Damned Europeans, the driver thought, always in a hurry. But this one was polite and his companion thanked him profusely in fluent, though oddly accented Spanish.  
  
Sean stopped at the reception desk instead of taking Viggo directly to his room and requested that the item he had stored in the hotel safe be delivered to his suite as soon as possible. When the desk clerk, Lupe, seemed less than enthused about the request, Viggo murmured to her in Spanish and a soft smile warmed her eyes.  
  
"What did you say to her?" Sean asked as they entered the lift.  
  
"Just the usual," Viggo replied nonchalantly.  
  
"Remember that journalist at Cannes? She sure as hell asked the wrong person about seduction," Sean chuckled as he stepped out into the corridor, leaving a much bemused Viggo to follow. Sean opened the door to his suite and ushered Viggo inside, watching as Viggo explored the layout and stared out the window.  
  
"Great view of the parking lot," Viggo remarked. "I take it Brad, Diana, and Orlando got the ocean-view rooms?"  
  
"Wanker." Sean groused. "I just take what they give me. I'm here to work, not to make demands on the crew. Besides, its usually dark when I leave, dark when I get back, and I try not to spend me one day off in here. The window could look at a fucking wall for all the difference it makes to me." Sean glanced over at Viggo and saw consternation written on the other man's face.  
  
"Sean..." Viggo said softly, then pulled him into a full hug; bodies pressed together from chest to thigh, arms tight around each other, melding hearts and bodies together. Sean rested his cheek on Viggo's shoulder, breathing in the scent of his lover, letting it fill him, soothe him, provide the last measure of comfort he needed to feel complete. There they stood until it seemed as though their pulses had synchronized and they each, at long last, regained their sense of the other.  
  
They pulled apart with great reluctance, knowing that such moments cannot last forever. "I am already looking forward to tomorrow morning," Viggo declared, his eyes shining.  
  
"Why? I'm working tomorrow. What do you have planned?"  
  
Viggo smiled. "My plans are simple and involve nothing more than waking up next to you. It means I'm not sleeping alone tonight, for the first time in months. If I've learned nothing else this year, Sean, I've learned just how much I miss you–not your companionship, not the love making, just you." Viggo's eyes suddenly darkened. "I can't do another year like this one, Sean. Unless you have strong objections, I'd like to travel with you next year."  
  
"Objections? Why would I object?" Sean said in amazement. "I put your name on the lists every time we change locations. It's on all of me documents, every one of those damned papers we complete for the studios, those insurance waivers and pay packet forms. If you think I'm afraid of people finding out, you're daft. After this last couple weeks I doubt there is anyone left who doesn't know."  
  
A discreet knock at the door halted conversation. Sean gave Viggo one of 'those' looks as he answered the door, then took possession of the mahogany box the hotel had stored for him. He tipped the bellman, then set the box on the table nearest Viggo.  
  
Sean stopped Viggo from opening the box. "Let me finish what I was saying, then we'll move on," he said quietly. "We have been together, in one form or another, for nigh on four years. We've been discreet, but we haven't made a secret of our relationship. I'm not hiding us, or hiding you either. Don't ever think I'm ashamed of you, Viggo. If you want to travel with me when I'm working, then you travel with me. Simple as that, yeah? By the way, Orlando knows, and probably Elijah and Ordesky, too."  
  
Viggo rolled his eyes. "If Elijah knows, then it's probably on a website somewhere. And I told Mark when I talked him into holding this for me. When did you tell Orlando?"  
  
Sean chuckled. "He read the letter you sent with the GPS thing and put two and two together. It was a little less subtle than the one you sent with the tapestry. Something for which I haven't thanked you properly, yet," he said, leaning over Viggo and giving him a searing kiss. "I have never been given a more beautiful gift. It's lovely." Sean opened the box and blinked as his own image stared back at a point somewhere over his left shoulder. "Where was this taken? And more importantly, what's the occasion?"  
  
Viggo smiled enigmatically, much like the Cheshire Cat, Sean thought, and shook his head. "At some point it will come to you, and you'll remember the moment. But you'll get no hints from me." Viggo lifted the embroidery out of the box and examined it carefully. "It turned out better than I had hoped," he murmured, then looked from one Sean to the other. "You are beautiful."  
  
Sean blushed at the compliment. Having spent the last four months with people uniformly regarded as undeniably attractive, he would hardly place himself in the same category. But the look on Viggo's face reminded him that beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder and if Viggo found him attractive, who was he to argue?  
  
A noisy gurgle from Viggo's stomach reminded them that it was well past time for a meal. "Room service or do you want to go out?" Sean asked. "The hotel food is hotel food, but there is a little dive around the corner that the local crew eats at. I haven't tried it though. Don't know what half the things on the menu are."  
  
They ate at the café and Viggo ordered for both of them, something simple for Sean and something so spicy for himself that Sean's eyes watered when it was brought to the table. They both had Dos Equis with dinner, which Sean immediately labelled the second worst beer on the planet, and spent a long time catching each other up on the mundane bits of living they'd both missed sharing.  
  
They walked hip to hip along the boardwalk after dinner, chatting easily, ignoring the looks of curiosity and disdain they were given by some of the other people strolling along with them. It was their first night together in months and propriety hadn't been invited along. Sean could not remember a time when he felt more right, more at peace than he did at that moment. He stopped suddenly, nearly frozen by a wave of desire so fierce he could scarcely breathe. "It's time to go back, Viggo," he murmured. Viggo turned and looked at Sean, recognizing and responding to the need he read in Sean's eyes.  
  
Sean would never remember the walk back to the hotel. His first memory was the moment the doors closed and Viggo had him pinned against the back wall of the lift. Viggo's kiss devoured him and he was on the brink of surrender when the lift doors opened three floors early. Viggo groaned and rested his forehead on Sean's shoulder as Garrett entered the lift.  
  
"Hey, Sean! Going to introduce me?" Garrett was on the short list of people Sean would have paid money not to see. He was like a brainless Orlando. Viggo turned as he heard Sean begin to speak. "Garrett, this is Viggo Mortensen. Viggo, Garrett Hedlund."  
  
"It's an honour to meet you. Great work on the trilogy, sir. Can't wait for the next one," Garrett enthused as he pumped Viggo's hand.  
  
"Thanks," Viggo said, clearly nonplussed by the greeting. "I'm looking forward to seeing _Troy_."  
  
Garrett visibly puffed up until he realised that Viggo was a guest of Sean's, and suspected, rightly, that any interest Viggo had was due to Sean's involvement in the project, and maybe that of Orlando Bloom's. The lift halted again and Sean bid Garrett a polite good night as he and Viggo stepped out.  
  
Moments later they were in Sean's room and passion would be denied no longer. Hot, wet, demanding kisses ensued as clothing was discarded and hands explored territory too long denied. "Have a preference?" Viggo asked, extracting a condom and lube from the pocket of his discarded jeans.  
  
Sean didn't need a moment to decide. "You topping," he stated, taking the condom from Viggo's hand and unwrapping it. Sheathing his lover in latex had proven to be a seldom overlooked exercise in eroticism in its own right; more than one condom had been discarded not quite fully used. Pulling Viggo down onto the bed next to him, Sean knelt next to his partner and grasped his cock gently in one hand, giving it several long, slow strokes from base to tip, watching Viggo's eyes flutter closed in response.  
  
Placing the ring of latex over the tip, Sean covered the head of Vig's cock while his free hand continued its smooth strokes, up and down the shaft. "You are a tease," Viggo muttered, causing Sean to chuckle in response.  
  
"Aye, and you love it," he replied, slowly unrolling more of the condom as he spoke.  
  
"Oh your knees, lover," Viggo ordered once Sean had finished, guiding Sean into position. "You are the best piece of ass I've ever had," he declared, running a hand appreciatively over Sean's flanks. The role of Odysseus was a physically demanding one which had reaped unforeseen benefits, not least of which was one of the nicest asses for miles. "So, when's your next video coming out? _Buns of Trojan Steel_ wasn't it?"  
  
"Ha ha," Sean replied, shuddering as Viggo's fingers teased at the pucker between his flanks. He moaned as fingers slid deep within him, stretching him, teasing at his prostate, causing a delicious series of lightning bolts to dance up his spine. "Fuck, Viggo," he groaned.  
  
"Is that a request, because, you know, I aim to please." God, he'd missed this, the light banter that added an element of fun to their lovemaking. He nibbled the length of Sean's spine as his hands found nipple and cock.  
  
"You're not knowing one when you hear it, then?" Sean gasped. "Ahh, holy god, Viggo."  
  
"Shh," Viggo soothed as he pressed into Sean, breaching muscle and enveloping himself with Sean's heat. He set a gentle rhythm, one that he could sustain for many long minutes, until Sean's moans and pleas told him of his lover's need for release.  
  
Feeling Viggo move in him, making him breathless and light headed with each long slide, Sean acknowledged to himself yet again how very much he loved this man, wishing yet again that Viggo was not so adamant that the words remain unspoken between them. As he pushed back, meeting each deep thrust with one of his own, a low growl of need was torn from this throat when Viggo's hand surrounded his cock and his lover fucked him to completion. He came violently, shuddering in the deep muscles in his thighs, feeling his toes curl as he cried out.  
  
Viggo quickened his pace at feeling those muscles grip him so tightly and boring his way deep inside his lover, moaned his release as well. Several easy thrusts later, he withdrew and with gentle hands began to clean them both.  
  
Sean dropped onto his side and propped his head up with his hand, green eyes glowing as he watched Viggo move about the room, discarding trash and putting their clothing into a single pile near a wall. "Did I remember to tell you I'm glad you're here?"  
  
"You might have in the trailer, but to tell you the truth, I might have missed that part. Was it before or after you came?"  
  
"After, I think. Get in here, mate," Sean invited, pulling back the light covers and patting the mattress. "I'm ready to sleep and I want you with me."  
  
"If that's not the best invitation I've had in minutes, I don't know what is," Viggo smiled in response. "Give me a sec," he said, disappearing into the bathroom, Sean's eyes following him with undisguised interest.  
  
He returned moments later and crawled in next to Sean. "Turn over," he requested. "I want to hold you tonight," breathe your scent all night, feel the warmth of your skin under my hand, wrap you in my arms and never let you go, he thought to himself.  
  
Startled, Sean stared wide-eyed at Viggo for a moment. "Aye, all right." He turned onto his side, then reached over and turned off the light. It felt strange to have Viggo wrapped around him–Sean was usually on the outside–but it took only moments to relax into slumber.  
  
Viggo took much longer to fall asleep. His mind couldn't seem to shut down enough to permit slumber, so filled with thoughts of Sean, the nature of their relationship and questions for which he had no answers.

 

 

* * **_October 2003 It’s a Sign_** * * *  
  
'If it's Tuesday, it must be Philadelphia,' Sean thought, though he couldn't swear that's where he was. _Troy_ had wrapped, but rather than return to London, where Viggo _wasn't_ , he'd accepted a last minute role opposite Nicolas Cage, and Christ if he wasn't the most egotistical, insecure actor he'd ever had the misfortune to work with. The work was easy, the pay was good but…he still missed Vig.  
  
They were wrapping in Philly, then heading to LA where, if Sean was incredibly fortunate, he might see Viggo for one whole week—making an even thirty days out of the entire year. If he had to chain Viggo to himself, they were _not_ doing this again next year. Viggo was right, enough was enough; man can only live by email and phone sex for so long.  
  
Flopping over in his lonely bed, trying unsuccessfully to fluff hotel pillows, Sean gave up getting comfortable enough to fall easily asleep. He was booked on a flight to Coeur d'Alene the next afternoon and would be spending the weekend at Viggo's cabin in Idaho, searching for the next set of coordinates.  
  
It should have been a warning from God, though at the time Sean hadn't recognized the signs for what they were. The flight was a fucking disaster from the word go, delayed initially for ninety minutes due to a hydraulic leak, which they thought repaired sufficiently enough to get the plane most of the way across the country. The wait gave Sean more than enough time to work up a good head of anxiety, so it was with more unease than usual that he boarded.  
  
A line of thunderstorms marching east from Missouri to Wisconsin batted the plane around like a tennis ball at Wimbledon, causing it to take hundred foot drops and throwing it sideways until Sean thought he'd either puke or faint. When the cabin lights began to flicker off and on like a crazed pinball machine, holy fucking Christ, there wasn't sufficient alcohol on board to numb his senses enough for this. Rivulets of cold sweat ran down his spine as the blood drained from his face, and he had no idea what was keeping his heart from pounding through his chest.  
  
After ninety of the most frightening minutes Sean had ever spent in a 737, they finally got west of the storms and found a patch of smooth air, allowing the captain to turn off the seatbelt sign. Sean wondered if he'd have to pry his fingers from the armrest of his seat, but he was able to relax sufficiently to open his hands. He glanced at the leather under his fingertips, certain he had managed to tear holes in it, but remarkably, it appeared intact. He was usually quite content to have a row to himself when flying—no need to make small talk with strangers, some of whom recognized him from his work in _Rings_. Today, though, he'd have welcomed the company of a two-year old if it kept his mind off their imminent destruction. At least he hadn't pissed himself.  
  
As soon as he could stand, Sean made his way to the First Class lav to relieve himself, better here than in his seat, he thought, and to splash some water on his face. After mopping off the water with some paper towels, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror and noticed he appeared almost as afraid as he felt. 'Not good,' he thought. 'Not good at all.' As he began to school his features into something that looked less like stark terror, several things happened at once. The seatbelt sign chimed on, the plane pitched into a steep dive, and the First Officer began speaking over the plane's broadcast system.  
  
The wide-eyed look of panic was back and Sean's knees were shaking so hard he could barely manage the twenty feet back to his seat. A medical emergency in coach gave the plane priority routing into Coeur d'Alene. 'Make that two emergencies,' he thought as his trembling fingers struggled to fasten his seatbelt. As he had so often in the past, he promised himself he would never board a plane again. He could not decide if was easier to keep his eyes open or close them, then decided it really didn't matter–his green eyes would be incinerated in the fiery crash that was sure to follow. And he'd never had a chance to tell Viggo he loved him.  
  
The plane landed, or was shot down–Sean wasn't quite certain which–and the pilot, doing a credible impersonation of Emerson Fittipaldi, steered the plane to the gate where it was met by fire engines, paramedics and assorted airport emergency vehicles, all with lights flashing. No one on board could disembark until the affected passenger had been treated and loaded onto the ambulance; if Sean could have clawed his way through the bulkhead he would have.  
  
Pale, shaking, nearly green with fright, Sean finally escaped from the aircraft and made his way to the baggage carousel, then to the Hertz counter to pick up the 4x4 he had reserved for the weekend. The customer service rep considered briefly refusing him the keys to the truck until Sean said, "Bad flight, luv, and I don't fly well." With a wan grin, he asked for, and received the name of a good restaurant and decent hotel as well as directions to each. The cabin could wait–right now all Sean wanted was a hot shower, some food to absorb the copious amount of alcohol he intended to drink, then a horizontal  stable surface where he could get some sleep–maybe.  
  
The next morning dawned clear and _cold_ , near freezing though it was only mid-October. Viggo had warned him that the weather was very unpredictable at this time of year, which was a large part of why Viggo wanted this task done before September had drawn to a close, and that was nearly three weeks ago. But the sky was a crystal clear blue seldom seen in England and there were no clouds on the horizon.  
  
Viggo's land was roughly a hundred miles east of Coeur d'Alene near a lake in a heavily forested area. Two hundred some-odd acres of pristine forest, complete with lake, stream and glen. The cabin, more of a small lodge really, had two bedrooms, a kitchen, bathroom with shower–thank God Viggo had decided against taking the outhouse route–and living room with an enormous stone fireplace.  
  
As much as Viggo claimed to eschew the trappings of wealth, he could certainly spend, and spend well, when it came to providing basic creature comforts. "It gets cold in winter, Sean. Snows enough to cover this place." Sean just smirked and nodded as Viggo arranged for stone from a particular river to create the ambience he wanted. Everything at the cabin was efficient, environmentally friendly and ridiculously expensive.  
  
Three hours along the windiest road Sean had ever driven brought him to the turn-off he was seeking. Another twenty minutes along chunks of asphalt set in hard-packed dirt brought him to a simple gate set in a chain link fence belonging to the adjoining property owner. Viggo didn't believe in fences despite the good neighbour adage since they interfered with the migratory patterns of native fauna. Sean opened the gate, drove through, and closed it behind him. Another ten minutes of being jostled on a heavily rutted unpaved road found him at the cabin.  
  
Suitcase in hand, Sean entered the cabin and quickly located the hand-written list Viggo had prepared that gave detailed instructions for getting the cabin ready for occupancy. The list inevitably made Sean laugh, and today was no exception. Only someone like Viggo could prepare an instruction list that was more of a hindrance than help. At least it reminded him of what needed to be done. It reminded him of his lover as well, the thought bringing a wistful smile to his face.  
  
 _1\. Turn on power. Unless it's night. If it's night, light one of the lanterns first. They're in kitchen above the stove. Oh, the gas line to the stove needs to be turned on– after the power's on. The electrical power, I think._  
  
Sean still wasn't certain how he was supposed to read the list in the dark, but that was a Viggo question best left unexplained. God, how he loved the man.  
  
 _2\. Turn on power. The other power–the propane. The generator has to be on first. Or the electricity. If the snow's deep, start with the generator because the power's probably out. Once there's some sort of electricity, the propane line can be opened.  
  
3\. After the propane line is open, light the pilots for the stove and the water heater. Start a fire in the fireplace (skip this if it's between the months of May and August, unless it's cold out, use Sean's definition of cold.)_  
  
Sean couldn't help but grin at this. He and Viggo had at least a ten degree difference of opinion on the meaning of "cold," with Viggo usually huddled under a couple of blankets by the time Sean considered getting a jumper.  
  
 _4\. Go back and start the propane pump. Turn off the stove and water heater first. That's why the pilots didn't light._  
  
This step reminded Sean why he read through the entire list before tackling the chores. While he would never describe his lover as absent minded, Viggo tended to get derailed by his own thoughts before he completed the task at hand. Viggo, Sean was certain, had invented the concept of multi-tasking before there was a word for it.  
  
 _5\. Fix yourself a drink, you've earned one...  
  
6\. After you've turned on the water. The wrench is next to the fireplace, unless I left it by the generator. If it's not in either place, check under the bed._  
  
Sean didn't want to consider the implications of that statement. For the life of him, he couldn't remember a single instance where he would have had the wrench in the bedroom. With Vig, though, stranger things had happened.  
  
 _7\. Sheets are a good thing. Put some on the bed. And blankets (three if Sean's not here; one if he is. Two if he thinks it's chilly)._  
  
At this instruction, Sean laughed out loud, wondering how many blankets he'd need since Viggo was not there.  
  
After spending more than an hour opening the cabin, searching for the pipe wrench accounted for more than half of the time and Sean refused to contemplate the reasons why Viggo might have put it in the oven, he fixed himself a light lunch, grateful that he had managed to sell Viggo on the virtues of vacuum sealed meats and tins of food. He pulled some free range, organic skinless chicken out of the freezer and set it on the counter to defrost while he went in search of the next cache.

 

 

* * **_October 2003 A Walk in the Woods_** * * *  
  
It was late in the afternoon when Sean left the cabin. The sky was still a brilliant blue, but there was a line of clouds in the west and the wind had picked up. Sean decided that a pair of gloves might be a welcome addition to his jeans, flannel shirt and lined denim jacket. He unpacked the GPS, pulled up the stored coordinates–he and Viggo had spent some time learning how to program it while Vig was in Cabo–and headed out the door.  
  
It took only a moment for Sean to get his bearings, then headed northeast into the forest behind Viggo's cabin. Comprised largely of tall conifers with a few deciduous trees that were donning their fall raiment, he breathed in the rich spicy perfume of spruce and pine as he walked deeper into the woods. Sean had to pay attention to where he placed his feet; there were no trails and although the undergrowth was sparse, the odd root could easily cause a sprained ankle.  
  
He paused every five minutes or so to take a reading and compare his location to the spot Viggo had chosen. He was drawing closer, slowly, and he wondered again why Viggo had thought this was a good idea. Yes, it got him out, and yes, it was enjoyable to go for a walk across Viggo's land, but Sean was sentimental enough to prefer to see the look in Viggo's eyes when he opened the occasional gift from his lover.  
  
Another dozen readings found him at the base of a large silver maple tree near the summit of a small hill and remembering what Elijah said about caches being found in trees, he groaned. He peered up through the leaves, trying to find anything that looked like it didn't belong. The lowest branch was a good six feet over his head and he was certain he was too old to climb trees. He checked the coordinates again; they matched exactly. He checked the base of the tree for signs that Viggo might have buried something there but there was no evidence of digging to his untrained eyes.  
  
He walked around the tree a few more times, craning his neck and swearing softly under his breath as though in fear of offending the pair of chittering jays his presence had disturbed. There was not a branch easily reached and he was positive Viggo would not place him in danger of breaking his damn fool neck, so there had to be another, more Viggo-like answer to the puzzle.  
  
Strolling back down the hill, Sean decided to examine the tree from a distance. Perhaps something would be revealed from a different vantage point. Viggo tended not to view the physical world the same way the rest of the world did, nor was he particularly linear in his thinking. A new approach was definitely needed.  
  
The mystery was solved about three-quarters of the way around the hill where Sean found an opening into a small cave. Swearing, not under his breath this time, Sean got down on hands and knees wishing his mate remembered he was no longer young and his knees had a tendency to remind him of that fact on a fairly regular basis. To Sean's chagrin, the cave did not get taller the further into it he travelled. At its highest, the ceiling was barely four feet over the floor, which did not give him enough room to stand.  
  
It was gloomy and musty, though dry and if there were signs that an animal or two called it home, Sean missed them. He turned on the GPS locator and took a reading, surprised when the damned thing was actually able to display a reading. Yes, this was in keeping with his lover's character so Sean continued to move further into the hollow until the readings matched. There on a natural shelf was a yellow Rubbermaid tackle box. If it hadn't been coated with a thick layer of dirt, Sean would have seen it much sooner, but time had taken its toll and Sean wondered just how long ago Viggo had embarked on this project.  
  
Opening the box, Sean discovered another wooden box, a small Maglite and another note. Sitting on the dirt floor of the cave, legs gratefully stretched out in front of him, Sean picked up the flashlight, praying that the impossible had happened and there were working batteries in it. Grinning broadly when a sharp beam of light shone from the bulb, he vacillated between opening the box and reading the note. As much as he wanted to see what Viggo had written, he decided to tackle the wooden case instead.  
  
Casting the beam onto the burnished surface of burl wood, Sean examined it closely. It was about the size of a shoebox and, unlike the other case, this one had a removable cover that fit snugly on its base. Carved into the cover was a loaf of bread and a wine glass, at least that what it looked like to Sean's eyes. Odd, that, he thought, shaking his head in puzzlement. Removing the cover took a bit of work, but Sean was able to rock it off the box without doing any damage to it. The contents made as little sense as the cover.  
  
Nestled inside the box were four bags made of dark blue velvet. In each bag was a bar of silver, nearly 15 cm by 10 cm and about a centimetre thick if Sean was any judge of measurement. He shook one out of its bag and turned in over in his hand.  
  
The reverse was smooth, not even the mark of a silversmith could be found. The obverse though displayed lines of Viggo's writing. Not his _writings_ – though it was that too– his writing. Viggo's handwriting cast in silver. Sean had seen it often enough to recognize his lover's penmanship, though this was neater than his usual scrawl. He shone the flashlight on the ingot and read the words. "This after seeing you last night, first time smelling you with permission." Sean felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. The words sounded strangely familiar. He shook another bar out and read those words. "We've left the shore somehow..."  
  
"Viggo, what the fuck were you thinking?" Sean asked to the walls of the cave, and though the walls remained silent, the question was not entirely rhetorical. It was _The Orli Poem_ , or so the rumours went, though Sean himself had received a sideways glance or two from friends and strangers when _Coincidence_ had been published. Although...Sean admitted to himself that the poem stirred echoes within him of something he should remember, but didn't.  
  
He turned his attention to the note, more curious about the coordinates than the message. If the words in silver could be believed, the note would shed little or no light on the inner workings of Viggo's mind. In this assumption he was surprisingly mistaken. The note shed a lot of light; the problem was it was shining in the wrong direction.  
  
 _Dear Sean,  
  
Imagine you are standing at the summit of a mountain overlooking a broad, sweeping plain. Far below and as far as the eye can see, the twinkling of campfires are spread over it like stars in the night sky. Wide distances separate each point of light and no one knows what lies in the dark unseen.  
  
At each fire sits a person, alone and having no one else to rely upon for aid, for companionship, for support. The solitary existence wears on for a while, until one traveller stumbles across the path of another, then another, until before long a network of trails connects them.  
  
Some draw close, others remain at a distance. Some leave the plain altogether, unwilling or unable to stay. The people organize themselves, impose upon themselves some semblance of order, a hierarchy of sorts emerges.  
  
So it is with my thoughts. Ideas are born; each a discrete image, word, color, texture, sound. They begin to coalesce and organize themselves around a theme or arc. Some become paintings or songs, others turn into poems or essays. These days, more and more of them revolve around you–the sound of your voice, the texture of your hair, the color of your eyes, the way you move, the very scent of you. I do not impose a motif upon them; instead they impose one upon me.  
  
You center me, Sean, keep me grounded and prevent me from being consumed from within, from getting so lost on the broad plain of my imagination that I lose my way. Does any of this explain why you're sitting in a cave in the middle of Idaho holding a piece of doggerel cast in silver? No, but then you didn't really expect me to answer that, did you? I will admit that picturing the expression on your face at this moment in time fills me with delight.  
  
Yours Always,  
Viggo  
  
P.S. For purely selfish reasons I've arranged for you to be here at the beginning of December. -44.2925, 168.7662. I suspect in this instance the coordinates will not be entirely necessary; I wouldn't be surprised if you barely needed them at all._  
  
"Viggo," he asked the cave walls, "when did you go completely nutters? And why have I not noticed 'til now?" He read through the post-script again, wondering what Viggo meant by "arranged for him to be here." None of the other notes had words to that effect. Sean looked closely at the numbers, missing at first the small minus sign in front of the first set. He tried to apply Elijah-math to the problem and became hopelessly muddled, winding up by his calculations somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean.  
  
Placing the note and silver box back in the plastic container, Sean crawled back out of the cave and noted with some dismay that the sky had clouded over and the temperature had dropped dramatically. He set the container down and pulled the gloves out of his pocket. He buttoned the denim jacket closed, turned up the collar, pulled on the gloves, then made his way back to the maple tree, container in one hand, flashlight in the other.

 

 

* * **_October 2003 Touchstones_** * * *  
  
Sean started back in the direction from which he thought he'd come but after a few minutes of steady walking wondered if he was walking in the right direction. Other than crossing a small stream, he had paid little attention to any landmarks and had taken no note of the coordinates of the cabin.  
  
He continued to walk on the same heading and realized with dismay that the occasional snowflake was dancing merrily across his path. Viggo had warned him that the weather changed wildly at this time of year, but he had not fully appreciated the danger. It seemed to take a very long time to find the stream and the crossing was unfamiliar. Sean distinctly remembered a granite stone in the middle of the creek, had used it to step across, but there was no such rock here. Snow was beginning to fall in earnest and Sean glanced around looking for something that would indicate the direction in which the cabin lay.  
  
Cloud cover completely obscured the setting sun, so Sean decided to follow the stream to see if he could find the large granite stone. If nothing else, he determined, he could find the cave and hole up there. Naturally, Sean thought crossly, the stream refused to cooperate and instead of travelling in a nice, straight line, chose to meander through the forest, adding what felt like miles to his journey.  
  
Night was falling faster than the snow and Sean had no idea whether he was moving toward the cabin or away from it. He chastised himself for his lack of foresight; he was wandering through the woods armed only with a set of keys and a small flashlight. He hadn't even brought a lighter with him.  
  
He took a reading, relieved that the display lighted up, and headed back toward the maple tree, jogging from time to time and hoping his feet weren't snagged by an errant root or branch. A broken bone would be an unwelcome complication.  
  
This is all Viggo's fault, he thought, then felt immediately guilty for considering such a thing. It was his fault, pure and simple, for failing to take a reading at the cabin and for ignoring Vig's warnings. When they find my body, my love, think kindly of me, he thought in despair as he continued to trudge toward the tree.  
  
Cold, wet and very hungry, Sean crawled back into the cave to consider his options. He could stay there and hope this was not a significant storm or he could try to find the cabin. There was no point in calling for help; there wasn't another soul for miles. Idly he picked up the GPS, more to distract himself than anything else, and began to press buttons, switching between his current location and the stored coordinates. Hitting _Recall_ instead of _Current_ , Sean was startled to see his previous reading, the one near the stream on the way to the cave, displayed. He pressed it again, and the reading before appeared on the indicator.  
  
"Christ almighty, it's better than breadcrumbs," he exclaimed out loud, feeling an enormous wave of relief. One hour and two falls later, one of which was into the stream, Sean reached the cabin and pulled the door open in relief. He quickly started a fire, then stripped out of his wet clothes and stood in front of rising heat. Pulling on the trousers he'd planned to wear the next day, thick socks that he found in their dresser and a heavy jumper, he started fixing his dinner.  
  
While food simmered on the stove, he decided to check in with the madman he referred to as 'mate', or 'daft bugger' depending on the circumstances. He dialled the number for Viggo's mobile intending to leave a message and nearly dropped his phone when his partner answered.  
  
"Sean!" Viggo exclaimed upon answering, skipping the usual pleasantries. "Where are you?"  
  
"The cabin, thank Christ," Sean declared, then briefly recounted his adventures searching for treasure, eliciting a long sigh from his mate.  
  
"How long have you been there?"  
  
"I got in this afternoon after nearly being killed by American Airlines yesterday. Where are you?"  
  
Viggo leaned back into the corner of the couch. "At home. LA," he added just in case Sean thought London. "Bad flight?"  
  
Sean relived the horrors from the day before and Viggo could hear the fright in his voice. "How long a flight have you condemned me to for the next cache?" he inquired resignedly. If it were anyone but Viggo, he'd dig in his heels and refuse to go.  
  
Feeling a momentary twinge of guilt, Viggo replied, "I'll narrow your search a bit. New Zealand," then winced when Sean snarled into the phone.  
  
"Thirty fucking hours from London. Couldn't you have buried it in the garden or something? Given it to me mum to hold for ye?" and there was nothing good-natured in his grumbling.  
  
"Yeah, but it's only 12 or so from LA," Viggo reminded him.  
  
Sean sighed. "If it weren't snowing here, I'd drive to LA," he continued more calmly, "but I’m to be there on Monday, so I've got to haul me arse back on a damned plane so they can try again. Pick me up?"  
  
"It's the least I can do," Viggo responded gently, looking for a pencil or a paintbrush or something to write with. "Flight info?"  
  
"Which wall are you writing on?" Sean asked suspiciously, a question that earned a heartfelt laugh from his lover.  
  
"None of them. I've got a godawful script in my hands. Your flight information is too good for it, but I'm putting it there anyway." He skipped the part about it being in yellow crayon and harder than hell to read.  
  
"How's the house look?"  
  
Viggo fidgeted for a moment before answering, and that pause spoke volumes. "Well..." another pause, "it looks like I live here."  
  
"I'm calling before me flight to remind you to change the sheets and put the laundry in the garage so I can tend to it when I get home." The London home, originally Sean's, was kept clean; the Topanga house, Viggo's, was on the verge of being condemned. Sean had gone so far as to hire a cleaning service, which Viggo had promptly cancelled when three young uniformed women had appeared on his doorstep. But the arrangement worked, sort of, given how little time they spent together in the Southland.  
  
"I'll see you tomorrow then," Sean replied, lifting the lid on the pot and inhaling appreciatively. "Try to keep me waiting under half an hour?"  
  
"It was only one time, Sean, one time," Viggo protested, knowing Sean was teasing him. So his timekeeping skills were less than stellar; he was seldom more than fifteen minutes late, except the one time that he'd gotten the date wrong and showed up to meet a Tuesday flight on Wednesday. Sean had waited two hours before flagging a taxi and coming home to an empty house.  
  
"I know, mate, and I'll not be letting you forget it," He paused while he put his meal on a plate and poured a glass of wine. "Tomorrow, then."  
  
"'Til tomorrow, sweetheart," Viggo replied, sighing as he ended the call. As much as he welcomed the call, he felt Sean's absence more than ever. Tomorrow, then, and began to gather up the dirty clothes he'd discarded in the living room.

 

 

* * **_Fourth Quarter, 2003 Transitions_** * * *  
  
The rest of October and first half of November passed in a haze of work and play, trips and more work. Viggo was travelling all over the planet and giving interviews to anyone carrying a tape recorder, a steno pad and a weary expression. _Miyelo_ opened, _45310_ was released, as was _Pandemoniuminamerica_ , which to Sean sounded as though something was caught in the garbage disposal, but he'd rather die than admit that out loud.  
  
Sean continued filming _National Treasure_ during the day, cleaning some small corner of the house in the evening and, on the rare occasions when Viggo was home, fucking until all hours until the make-up department started asking if he'd mind getting just a little more sleep, hint hint. Speculation on the set was rife while those prone to gossip tried to figure out who Sean was shagging since it was common knowledge he was single unless Orlando was around.  
  
 _The Big Empty_ opened and Sean worked during the day and made public appearances at night. He played the promotion game, but since it was a small film managed to avoid the painful experience known as the Talk Show. The audience Q  & A sessions were enjoyable, but damned if there wasn't always a question, usually by a small cadre of hard core fans, about _Rings._  
  
Looking at his calendar, not yet willing to forego the comfort of pen and paper for a hand-held device, Sean looked through the sheaf of papers in front of him, while he tried to reconcile their schedules for the next four weeks. "Tomorrow you fly to Buenos Aires, then onto Brazil, kick around S.A. for a week or so, then to Wellington. I fly to New Zealand on Thanksgiving where someone _will_ pick me up," a meaningful look at Viggo, "then fly back on the New Line charter for the LA premiere."  
  
"Two weeks," Viggo corrected. "I'll be kicking around Argentina and Brazil for 16 days." His eyes rolled upward while he mentally counted the days. "No dateline, right, just the equator? Yeah, 16." Selecting one of the papers on the table between them, he read through the arrival and departure information, then got up to stand behind Sean. Sean's calendar told the whole story. In a seven week period, they'd had seventeen full days together, eleven of them consecutive.  
  
"I'm sorry I missed your premiere," he murmured into Sean's ear, his arms wrapped around his shoulders. "I'd have been there, but I'd already committed to the DC thing."  
  
"Weren't a problem," Sean said easily. "You'd have ended up answering questions about being King at any road. Maybe just as well."  
  
"I wouldn't have answered any," Viggo replied. "Just turned it back into a conversation about you, then a segue to how wonderful you are and what an honour it was to work with you, and how it was very kind of you to think of me and invite me to the premiere of your movie."  
  
"You're bloody daft if you think you'd have such an easy time of it," Sean groused, though inwardly please. "Face it, luv, you're lost to me until after _Hidalgo_ , then we start the madness again for _Troy_."  
  
Viggo nuzzled against Sean's neck, then began nipping light kisses along the hollow of Sean's throat, grinning as the stubble tickled his lips. "I'm packed for tomorrow–clean clothes even, matching socks, a pair of decent shoes–do I get a proper send off?"  
  
"Proper? You're wanting me to be proper?"  
  
"If that means fucking with our clothes on, then no," Viggo replied, lazily working the buttons of Sean's shirt and slipping a hand inside to tease lightly at a rapidly hardening nipple. "But if you mean fucking so I feel you every minute I'm sitting in that goddamned airplane tomorrow, then that's exactly what I mean."  
  
His hands continued to play lightly over Sean's skin, his lips tracing a path over the nape of his lover's neck. One hand dropped possessively over the prominent bulge in Sean's trousers, feeling Sean's cock twitch in response as he increased the pressure. "But," he breathed against Sean's shoulder, "if you're not interested, just tell me to go away."  
  
"I've had me share of you goin' away," Sean rasped. "Rather just keep you nearer at hand. Take me fill of you whenever I have need of it." He turned and pulled Viggo's head down to deliver a deep kiss, exploring Viggo's mouth as though the feel of it were brand new. "Viggo..." he whispered raggedly, his green eyes darkening with need.  
  
"Couch? Table? Bed?" Fuck this, Viggo thought, not wanting to waste time with inane decision making. He peeled off his tee shirt and shucked off his jeans, tossing them aside and headed down the hall to their room, knowing without looking back that Sean would only be a step or two behind him.  
  
Sean picked up the clothes as Viggo discarded them and tossed them into the closet before removing his own and joining his lover on the broad mattress. "On yer side, mate," he instructed, rolling Viggo into position and spooning up behind him. "You've the most lovely skin," he murmured as his hands skated over Viggo's smooth chest, his lips pressing into the hollow of his lover's shoulder.  
  
Rolling back slightly, feeling Sean's cock nestled in the crevice of his ass, Viggo turned his head to gaze up at Sean. Even now, after all this time, Sean could still stop his heart with a single glance, bring him to his knees by whispering his name. "You're still the most beautiful man I've ever known."  
  
Sean spent what seemed like hours exploring every inch of Viggo, burying his tongue in every nook and cranny until he was certain he had committed to memory all of Viggo's different tastes and smells, cataloguing each of Viggo's small moans and cries so he could replay them on lonely nights when more than miles separated them.  
  
Except Viggo's cock.  
  
Sean steadfastly ignored that until Viggo was frantic, writhing against him and pleading with him to please, Sean, for the love of God, just fuck me, please, babe, make me feel so good, Sean, please. Then Sean's hands would move slowly along Viggo's spine bringing him down a little bit until he pushed him back up the mountain again.  
  
After Sean decided he'd had enough of torturing himself–Viggo already being lost to six forms of madness–he slicked his fingers with the lube Viggo'd thoughtfully left on the bed and slipped two digits deep inside his lover, twisting them gently, gasping as Viggo began moving in earnest against his hand, soft cries erupting from Viggo every time his ass made contact with Sean's palm.  
  
"Shhh, luv," Sean crooned. "Shhh. I've got you." He fumbled with the condom for a moment, sheathed himself in latex and gently thrust his hips, pushing against the tight ring of muscle until a soft 'pop' against his cock let him know he had breached his lover. He gasped in tandem with Viggo as he slowly buried his full length inside the tight passage, warm heat encircling him like a lined glove.  
  
"Jesus, Sean," Viggo cursed after Sean remained motionless for several long moments. "For the love of God, move or something, anything." Viggo's hand sought and found Sean's and he laced their fingers together, pulling against the tension in Sean's arm before guiding his lover's hand down to his weeping cock. "Please."  
  
"As ye wish." The position Sean chose did not lend itself to brutal fucking, but it was conducive to prolonged lovemaking. Sean began a slow rhythm, pulling out nearly to the tip before sliding slowly back in, pausing when he was balls deep in Viggo's lithe body. Over and over he stroked in and out, shifting his angle to rake against Viggo's prostate until his mate began a dance of his own.  
  
Viggo's motions were nowhere near as smooth as Sean's. His hips were moving in a swift jitterbug while his hand guided Sean's up and down his erection in a slower foxtrot. A light sweat broke over his body and Sean could smell the musk rising from them both, Viggo's soft oceanic scent a counterbalance to his own more pungent foresty smell. With a shudder Viggo arched against him and grunted as he spilled over their locked fingers, spurts of heat erupting in small spurts. His muscles clenched around Sean's length, trying to draw him in deeper while Sean thrust hard a few times, then came with a sharp cry of his own.  
  
With a broad, well manicured hand, Sean smoothed the hair off Viggo's sweaty brow then withdrew his softening cock as he waited for his pounding heart to slow. "Yer beautiful like this," Sean murmured, "eyes all soft, skin all rosy." He flushed. The only time he ever got close to exposing his heart was in moments like this, when Viggo was still caught up in a rapture of his own and not likely to be listening.  
  
Sean cleaned them both with a minimum of fuss, then drew the covers up over Viggo, kissing him lightly and promising to return in a little while. Walking through the house naked, Sean saw to all the final details that would enable him to sleep soundly: a final check of the locks on the doors, the collection of the few dirty dishes that had escaped his vigilance, making certain all of Viggo's travel documents were gathered up and organized. By the time he returned to their room, Viggo was already snoring lightly. With a sigh, Sean climbed in behind him and wrapped himself around Viggo, missing him already.

 

 

* * **_December 2003 The Keys to the Kingdom_** * * *  
  
The shoot for _National Treasure_ was going ridiculously well and at the end of each day, Sean marked out the date on the calendar with a growing sense of anticipation. Thanksgiving couldn't arrive soon enough to suit him, and though he was not looking forward to the circus that was Wellington, he was looking forward to his reunion with Viggo. He had already decided that he would avoid the "festivities" and spend premiere day finding the last of the three gifts that Viggo had hidden.  
  
After an uneventful flight, such things being relative to the passenger, Sean landed in New Zealand in the usual time zone fog common to international travellers. All he knew was that the sun appeared to be setting; whether he had gained or lost a day was something he hadn't quite figured out, and he was damned grateful that he'd flown out of LAX instead of Heathrow. London to Wellington had to be in violation of the Geneva Convention, he was certain of it, but since he wasn't a member of the SAS, His Majesty's Secret Service or any other arm of the military, he wasn't certain the treaty applied to him.  
  
Sean took a taxi from the airport to the hotel, and was shown immediately to Viggo's room. The staff had been alerted to expect him, and while he wasn't nearly the national hero that Viggo was, he was still afforded more courtesy than good manners allowed. He showered, leaving his clothes on the bathroom floor, and fell wearily into bed. Viggo would understand.  
  
It was nearly midnight before Viggo got back from the exhibit opening and reception. The press had been relentless and it was hard to move more than twenty-five feet without being assailed by someone congratulating him for breathing. Or so it seemed. He understood of course. Everyone wanted to feel a part of something that was immortal, but there were times when he fervently wished it wasn't his face staring out from every window on earth. Three more months of insanity, then he could step off the merry-go-round and recede into the haze of memory.  
  
The soft sound of gentle snoring greeted his ears as he let herself into the bedroom of his suite. Sean was here, and Viggo knew everything from here on out would be just fine. He stepped out his clothes and tossed them onto a chair, walked into the bathroom to clean his teeth, then returned to take a hard look at the figure in the bed. Yes, it was Sean, sound asleep, his tousled blond hair obscuring his features, but Sean nonetheless. Viggo returned to the bathroom, gathered up Sean's clothes and tossed them into the chair along with his own. With a huge yawn, he climbed into bed and wrapped herself around the larger frame of his lover and fell into a deep sleep.  
  
Sean woke with the sun. He was sore. Too many hours of enforced inactivity made him feel every one of his forty-four years and they all seemed to have settled in his knees. He eased his way out of bed, trying his best not to wake Viggo, stretched, then stood in front of the window overlooking Wellington Harbour.  
  
"I don't suppose you ordered any coffee?" called a sleepy voice from the bed and Sean turned with a smile on his face.  
  
"Not yet, but I will. Want food as well?" Not waiting for an answer, he picked up the phone and placed an order for coffee, tea, toast, porridge, half a dozen eggs and a couple rashers of bacon. What Viggo didn't eat, he would. The clerk said twenty minutes, which in hotel service time meant roughly before noon.  
  
He climbed on the bed and over his lover. God, Viggo was beautiful, especially when he still had that sleepy, muzzy air of confusion.  
  
"You lived," Viggo yawned as he stretched, then shook his head trying to clear the sleep from his brain.  
  
"The flight? Weren't no one on that plane that didn't know the Trilogy and were I in this one, and if not why not and if so, why." He shook his head, smiling into Viggo's brilliant blue eyes. "Thank you for gettin' me on the charter back to LA. Watching Sean A. interrogate the pilots on their pre-flight checklist will be more fun."  
  
Viggo chuckled as he pulled Sean on top of him. "Welcome to my world, Oh Steward's Son," he teased lightly.  
  
"Hardly, my liege," Sean retorted, settling himself in the vee between Viggo's legs. "The whole world knows the King has returned, even if they've never heard of Tolkien. 'Course the whole world's thinkin' Boromir was the Steward of Gondor. Odd that."  
  
"Still determined not to come tomorrow?"  
  
"Yeah," Sean confirmed. "I've a set of numbers to investigate. Besides," he smiled gently. "It's your day. Let the dead rest in peace."  
  
"Judging from what's poking into my thigh, the dead have risen," Viggo said with a glint of interest shining in his eyes.  
  
"You've an army of the dead at yer beck and call. One soldier, more or less, will not be makin' much of a difference."  
  
"I like my soldiers hardened, able to go the distance," Viggo bantered, running his hands over the taut curves of Sean's ass. "Need to be fearless, willing to dig in deep and retreat when necessary, only to forge forward again as many times as it takes."  
  
"Mad as a hatter, you are," Sean declared with a roll of his eyes.  
  
"Would you have me any other way?"  
  
"Sure. Flat on yer back with yer knees up around your shoulders," Sean replied with a lecherous grin.  
  
"But I'm the King," Viggo protested. "You should be on your knees instead."  
  
"Wantin' a blowjob, are ye?"  
  
What Viggo wanted wouldn't be known for a while, though, since a knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Room service...and Sean was ravenous. They teased each other through breakfast, loved passionately while they showered, and exchanged meaningful glances while they conversed with others at a private luncheon for the cast at PJ's new place.  
  
About mid-afternoon, Sean found Viggo in the crowd and placed a hand lightly on his shoulder, waiting for a break in his conversation with Bernard and John N. to steal a moment. "I'm headin' for the South Island," he said softly, walking towards the front door. "I'll be back day after tomorrow in time for the flight."  
  
"More geo-caching?" Elijah asked, overhearing the whispered farewells between Sean and Viggo.  
  
"Aye, and I've a six hour drive, not including the crossing, ahead of me," Sean grumbled, ruffling Lij's hair, though it wasn't nearly as much fun now that it was shorn. "Don't you have an Elf or two to pester?"  
  
"Know where you're going?" Elijah asked, bouncing on his toes. He loved puzzles, games, treasure hunts, any kind of fun.  
  
"Christchurch," Sean replied, "to start with, then see where from there."  
  
"What are the coordinates, do you know?" Elijah persisted.  
  
"Another word from you," Viggo warned, "and I'll throw you into the fiery chasm myself." He wrapped an arm around Sean and led him out of the house. "Flight's due to leave here about ten. Make sure you're on board. Big plane, Elves on the side, can't miss it."  
  
"At least I know for certain whatever you've left for me is smaller than a bread box," Sean replied with a smile.  
  
"Oh? And how did you reach that conclusion," Viggo asked, his eyes twinkling.  
  
"Because whatever it is, ye've left it in the middle of nowhere. The one thing that weren't, you sent me to Ordesky's office to retrieve. Face it, Vig, you're lazy and no more willing to haul something huge to the ends of the earth than I am to haul it back. And if New Zealand's not the ends of the earth, it's pretty damned close to."  
  
Viggo laughed. "Guilty as charged." He clasped his hand around the back of Sean's neck and rested his forehead on his mate's, smiling. "Be careful and call me when you reach Christchurch."  
  
"Aye, mum," Sean teased, then sobered. "The King has returned, and in all this time I don't think I've remembered to tell you how proud I am of all ye've done, how well ye've managed it all. Ye wear your grace well." Sean blushed as he spoke and pulled away, moving quickly towards his rental.  
  
Deep-set blue eyes followed Sean, deeply and unexpectedly moved by his lover's words. Even after all this time, Sean still had the ability to stun him into silence.  
  
The drive to the South Island was easy. The late spring day seemed tailor made for driving and Sean found himself carried back in time as he drove. The islands held a number of memories for him, nearly all good. Well, with the exception of a couple of helicopter rides. And that flood where he'd been trapped with Orlando, who'd proven to be more of a shop-aholic than any woman he'd ever known.  
  
He'd called Viggo and tried to shout over yet another party in progress for cast and crew and after fifteen frustrating minutes of saying "What?" over and over, gave up and took himself to a small restaurant for a late supper, where he'd ended up signing autographs for the dozen or so people who had not travelled to Wellington for the morrow's festivities.  
  
After a restless night's sleep, he woke early and turned on the telly for the day's weather forecast. Idaho had taught him an important lesson, and if he was going to go for a walk to who knows where with little more than a GPS for company, he wanted to know the manner of his death ahead of time. It wouldn't be from exposure. The weather was predicted to be perfect, especially in Wellington, "where the crowd is estimated to be over a hundred thousand strong."  
  
He took a reading at the hotel. It looked to be about a hundred miles away, wherever 'it' was, and mostly east from the look of things. He unfolded his map of the South Island and plotted a likely route, knowing he had plenty of time to see the chore done. He looked at the names of nearby towns, knowing Viggo wouldn't have chosen this site at random–so far none of them had been–and frowned when one name seemed vaguely familiar. Glenorchy. Something niggled at his memory, but the more he chased it, the more elusive it remained.  
  
He pulled to the side of the road and took a reading, comparing the numbers on the display to those stored. Sean was headed in the right direction. Another forty minutes saw him in the small village of Glenorchy. Memories of a caravan of trailers pulled by huge lorries teased him. They'd been here, and for more than a day if the signs were true.  
  
He filled the car with petrol at the sole filling station and purchased, or tried to, a boxed lunch for later in the day. The clerk accepted his excuse for not being in Wellington, thinking to herself that some things were well beyond her reckoning. If _she'd_ had a chance to see the most eagerly awaited film of her lifetime with the people who made it, she'd be front and centre. They both shrugged, unable to cross the divide of their mutual perspectives, and Sean left after thanking her for her generosity.  
  
After travelling north for nearly twenty minutes the terrain grew more and more familiar. He took the turn-aside to Paradise, growing more and more convinced he knew where he needed to go. A light breeze was blowing through the canyon as he pulled on to a dirt road that he knew was there before he saw it. He bumped and jostled his way along before deciding that he really didn't want ruin the car for the return trip.  
  
Sean was wearing an antique pair of jeans, a ratty tee shirt of Viggo's of several indiscriminate colours and a pair of beat up trainers– nothing like dressing for the occasion–and toyed with grabbing his denim jacket before deciding he really didn't need it and didn't relish the idea of carrying it if he didn't have to. He pulled the car as far over to the side of the road as he could before remembering if he travelled round the bend, he'd find a clearing. Sure enough, there it was, just as he remembered.  
  
He parked the car and took a reading, though it was hardly necessary. He jogged from the clearing to The Tree, knowing that this was most decidedly the place. Sean stood for a moment, still expecting to see the slightly hollowed out place where he had lain while readings were taken for lighting, for continuity, for the focus puller and the cameraman, for the boom operator, for PJ. It still amazed him that more techies didn't appear in scenes than they did.  
  
They'd filmed the scene for his lines that morning and every time he repeated "My Captain. My King," Viggo had withdrawn a little further into himself until Sean was wondering how Viggo'd get through his lines that afternoon. Sean found himself sitting at the base of the tree, lost in the memory of that moment. It would be easy to say that was where everything between them had changed, but in truth, that wasn't when it had happened. That moment had come much later. Here, though, was where they'd made the leap from colleagues to friends.  
  
That afternoon had been had been among the most gut wrenching of Sean's career. Viggo had lain on top of him for over thirty minutes while the same readings were taken for Viggo's shots. Vig had kept up a light patter with the crew, but would not meet Sean's eyes. Sean just waited quietly until they were ready to film. Each time through seemed to tear Viggo further apart until Sean, without anyone noticing, began to clasp Viggo's shoulder to provide him with a measure of comfort. The last take was scrapped completely when Viggo began weeping before the cameras began to roll. Sean drove everyone off when they wrapped, escorted Viggo to a nearby knoll and talked Viggo back down. What was said remained their secret.  
  
Sean allowed himself about an hour to wallow in sentiment, hoping that one day in the near future the two of them would return to this spot, before the ten year anniversary specials started filming at any rate, and with no cameras present. Except Viggo's, but that went without saying. He wiped his eyes, the dust was just as bad now as it had been four years earlier.  
  
It was, he reflected, reminiscent of Idaho. Standing under a tree wondering where under the sun Viggo would have hidden something that needed to remain hidden until the right person found it. The only differences between now and then were the absence of snow and the likelihood of Viggo's cache being discovered by the innately curious. Unlike Idaho, this location was part of a pilgrimage and the faithful continued to make their way to the place where Boromir had died.  
  
And Viggo knew that.  
  
What Sean needed to do, then, was put himself inside Viggo's head. He thought of the day they'd filmed, trying to decide how Viggo would see the world. The more he thought about it, though, the more certain he was that Viggo would not have hidden the cache at this tree.  
  
Sean closed his eyes and envisioned the location of camera equipment, lights, monitors; where each person stood, what they were doing when the last take was in the can. He had taken Viggo's hand and led him...there.  
  
Sean was already moving before he opened his eyes. His feet carried him swiftly to an old, gnarled tree, heavily knotted with lots of crevices and hollows. Wishing he'd brought a torch, Sean began to feel inside some of the larger holes, hoping that he would encounter nothing larger than a spider–and a small one at that. He grinned like a loon when his hand encountered something that was definitely manmade. Pay dirt.  
  
Do ye have stock in Rubbermaid, then? Sean wondered as he found yet another plastic container. He didn't even know they sold Rubbermaid products south of the equator. That Viggo had brought it with him had not yet crossed his mind.  
  
Lifting the shining case out of the clear plastic box, Sean examined it closely. It was about four inches square and two inches deep with a hinged lid. The edges of the lid were bevelled and his first name was engraved on the cover in an elegant script. A bracelet? Sean wondered as he tried to guess the contents. That Viggo would have purchased a watch was straining credulity well past the breaking point. He pressed a button on the front of the box, then stared as the lid popped open and the contents of the box were revealed.  
  
It was a large set of keys on a jewelled fob. There were at least a dozen keys of assorted sizes in various states of age, but nothing that provided any hint of what they opened. Not a car, that much was clear. Nor did they resemble house keys, not really. Picking up the fob, he looked closely at the design.  
  
The fob of the key ring was of silver, or a silver coloured metal, inset with onyx. Set into the black stone was the emblem of Gondor, the White Tree cast in the same metal as the fob. Surrounding the tree were seven diamonds. He turned the ring over in his hand, looking to see if its maker left a mark. Across the back, in letters that looked vaguely runic, was one word–Boromir.  
  
After spending many long minutes examining each key and the ring for some hint of why, much less what, Sean turned his attention to the note.  
  
 _Boromir, My Chosen Steward,  
  
If I know you, and I like to believe I do, you are reading this expecting to find answers, especially now the journey is nearly over. I have none to give you. Know only this, I have been driven to do this for you for a very long time and I can no more explain it than I can explain the strange series of events that brought us together. Who would have thought that a decision made on a moment's notice with the blessings of an eleven year old child would have changed so radically the course of our lives? Yet I would have it no other way.  
  
You will find no answers here, not even to the most obvious question. That will be known at the moment of my choosing, but rather than spending your time trying to unwind the torturous twists my mind seems to take, especially when filled with thoughts of you, think instead on the meaning of keys and all they symbolize, and why I chose the symbol I did for the key ring. Then tell me how many nights of sleep I owe you.  
  
Sean, there is no part of me that is not yours, no part of my life that you do not share. All the days that we've spent apart since our first night together I intend to reclaim when we are both old and gray, each and every one of them.  
  
Always,  
Elessar  
  
P.S. Because I know you're wondering, it's platinum and onyx which should last forever. Just remember 7 January is ours and I ask that you bring everything with you. You're going here. 57.2819, -5.7074. No cheating! Lij already knows I'll remove his tongue if he so much as breathes a hint. V._  
  
Sean chuckled as he read the first paragraph. They both knew each other well, it seemed. Yes, he'd looked for answers, but knew even before he started reading that he would find none. Viggo would share his secrets when he was ready, and no force on earth could change his mind once it was firmly made up. The trick was discovering the moment just before the decision was fully made, since it was in that moment that Sean had the best chance of dissuading him from whatever act of lunacy made sense at the time.  
  
Eyes misting as he read, blaming the blurred letters on the onset of age, Sean knew that if he'd had any doubts about his role in Viggo's life, they had been laid to rest in the closing words of the short missive in his hand. Viggo, it seemed, had pledged the remainder of his days to him. He could do no less.  
  
Turning his attention back to the keys, Sean's curiosity leapt to the fore. Ignoring for the moment any symbolism attached, he tried to guess what they opened. If the gift were merely symbolic, there would have been a single key, probably something so abstract as to be unrecognisable as such. No, this set was practical and somewhere there were doors waiting to be opened.  
  
Carrying his treasure trove back to the sedan, Sean sighed as he started the car and headed back to Christchurch. While he understood why Viggo had sent him on this quest alone, this moment was one he'd rather have shared with the man. This spot was where he'd lost his heart to Viggo, though he'd expended a tremendous amount of time and energy keeping that a secret. But right now, he was sharing Viggo with hundreds of thousands of people and for a brief instant, Sean resented each and every one of them.  
  
A smile spread across his face as his mobile began to play Malagueña, in honour of Vig's trek through South America. "The keys—what'd you buy this time?" he asked after they finished gossiping about the premiere.  
  
A low, throaty chuckle came over the ether. "I don't know why you keep asking, but it's your time to waste." Viggo stretched his legs out and winked at Fran, curled up in the far corner of the limo with Pete.  
  
"I don't know why either, except it's fun and I keep hoping one day you'll crack and spill all," Sean countered with a laugh of his own.  
  
"After all I've been through—commissioning, designing, hiding—do you really think I'll give up my secrets so near to the end?"  
  
"I'm sittin' with Orli on the flight back, just so you know. Perhaps Billy," Sean rejoined. "Get enough alcohol into them and they'll talk for three days. You'll have no secrets left by the end."  
  
Viggo laughed. "True enough, but have you ever actually listened to one of those conversations?" The shudder came through the phone. "But if you're going to spend your time in idle chatter with inebriated Halflings, then I guess I'll have to make do with the Rohirrim. Or Liv."  
  
"Anything to keep the pot stirred, eh, Viggo?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, I've heard her go on about kissing you," Sean teased. "Or, at least how you were too scruffy to kiss properly." He snorted. In his book, there was no such thing. "But you're all cleaned up now. No tellin' what will happen halfway across the Pacific, yeah? She might think she needs revision."  
  
"Save me from insatiable Elves," Viggo implored him. "Seriously, are you really going to spend the flight with Orlando?"  
  
"Time to come up for air, luv," Sean replied, chuckling. "The only person I want to hold onto is you. 'Tis a good thing it's a big plane."  
  
"Oh, yeah," Viggo agreed. "You'll be so tight around me I'll swear my cock's about to come off."  
  
Sean's jaw dropped and it was a moment before he remembered he was driving. "Bad time for phone sex, mate. Nearly met a lorry head-on with that last."  
  
Viggo blanched at the thought. "Christ, Sean. Be careful. Bringing you home in a box isn't on the to-do list."  
  
"Nor on mine," Sean rejoined, then his voice softened. "I'll be in Wellington tonight. Wait up for me?"  
  
"Well…there's still the premiere party which should run pretty late, then packing and an early flight tomorrow."  
  
"You're turning me down?" Sean was stunned into momentary speechlessness and wherever speech had gone, thought had accompanied it. He swore under his breath when he noticed he was fully on the wrong side of the road and wrenched the car back into the proper lane.  
  
"Me?" Viggo returned. "Not likely. I still hold out hope that you'll show up for the party."  
  
Sean sighed and shifted slightly in the driver's seat. "We've been through this. The King has returned and I'll not step into the limelight with you. This is your night, Viggo, whether you 're wantin' it to be or not. Besides, watchin' you butt heads with Sala and Orlando makes me want to shag you senseless and that's a photo I'll not be seeing in the scandal sheets, thanks."  
  
Viggo laughed. "When you put it that way, staying home might be the lesser of several evils." His voice dropped into a lower register when he noted Fran and Peter's interest in his side of the conversation. "I'll make an early night of it. Promise."  
  
"Someone's listening, yeah?" Sean chuckled. "I'll see to the packing, then I'll see to you. Massage, hot bath, hotter sex–and you can put them in whatever order you wish. At the King's command. Viggo?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Just promise me after Denmark, the King will abdicate his throne, leave Gondor in the hands of her Queen then come home to me?" The words hung in the air for a moment and Sean wished immediately that he could recall them. Too sappy by half, and yet, he truly had tired of all the days apart. "I think that were Glenorchy talking. Don't mind me," he added hastily.  
  
'I'd promise you more than that,' Viggo thought, though it remained unvoiced. "You're a rank sentimentalist, but your secret's safe."  
  
"I've a secret or two of yours I'm holdin'." The day had been picture-perfect and the road's end was in sight, both of which made Sean quite happy. "I'll be in Wellington near on eight o'clock. I'll see you when the day's done." He clicked off and began singing to the radio.

 

 

* * **_January, 2004 A Quiet Drive in the Country_** * * *  
  
It was snowing, still, and showed no signs of letting up. Sean had left Sheffield shortly near dawn, hoping he could make Glasgow by noon. Trust Viggo to send him to the ends of the earth. Based on what Lij had told him on the flight back from Wellington, Viggo's threats notwithstanding, 57.2819, -5.7074 was at least 400 miles north of London and 285 miles west, which put him somewhere in Scotland. He was glad he had decided to spend New Year's with his parents. That had cut nearly 150 miles and several hours off his journey. Sean planned to take a reading in Glasgow, then see where he had to go from there. It would have been easier to have someone with him during this part of the journey, but Viggo had insisted that he come alone.  
  
He checked himself into the Hilton shortly after 3:00 that afternoon, drained from over seven hours on the road in some of the worst weather he'd ever encountered and wondered if he'd make it to wherever he was going. He anticipated that the conditions tomorrow would be worse and he did not know how far he had to go. After listening to his stomach rumble for about twenty minutes, Sean placed a call to room service, then set up a wake-up call for 6:30 a.m., already dreading hearing the phone ring at that hour.  
  
With a good thought for Elijah, Sean got a fix on his location, examined the map he had brought and tried to figure out where he had to go. The display on the GPS read 55.8518, -4.2267. North and west, and since he was on the coast already, that meant travelling north first. He looked again at the map and decided that A82 looked most promising. Sean thought he'd stop at each roundabout and take a reading, wishing once again there was someone to help out.  
  
He looked again at the small collection of items he had wandered over half the globe retrieving, the portrait, the poem and a set of keys. Sean had spent the last month pondering what the items had in common. The idea that he was trying to think rationally whereas the giver couldn’t get from A to B without going through Q hadn't occurred to him. He couldn't think like Viggo in any case. No one could.  
  
He reread the poem several times and decided that he wanted to hear the words aloud. He read through it a half dozen times more, trying different cadences and accents, searching for the proper intonation to give the words a life beyond the page. He wondered about the last lines. What powerful thought might Viggo have had that he feared would be reduced to nothingness if transcribed? What had he kept to himself? And why?  
  
Sean pondered the imponderable until a knock on the door disrupted his reverie. It was room service with the closest the hotel could come to providing real food. He wolfed down his meal, grateful that it was hot, filling and tasted reasonably good, then contemplated heading to the Executive Lounge for a drink, finding a local pub or curling up with the book he'd brought with him. He peered out the window and noticed that it was still snowing. He called down to the concierge and asked for directions to a local pub, donned anorak and gloves and headed outside.  
  
Sean spent a good three hours debating football, playing darts and engaging in pub speak before he decided to call it a night. The "Weegies" were a fun and lively diversion; much more entertaining than a night parked in front of the telly or reading _Wuthering Heights_. He checked his cell phone for missed calls, returned the few that required his attention, cleaned up and called it a night.  
  
It had stopped snowing. Road crews were out on major motorways so there was some hope Sean would find the location during those few hours while the sun was up. He was smiling as he got into the car, the items he had been instructed to bring stowed safely within the passenger compartment. Everything he had been given had moved him and in private moments he still reeled when he considered the staggering amount of effort Viggo had undertaken for his benefit.  
  
Ninety minutes later he took his first reading. He had reached a major roundabout and he wasn't certain whether to head north or west. Judging from the reading he had to travel almost as far north as west, then looked at the map again. Six of one, half dozen of the other, he thought, then took the route heading north.  
  
Sean stopped in Invergarry as much out of fear as the necessity to get off the road for a while. He had lost control of the BMW twice when he hit patches of ice and offered a silent prayer to the engineer who had invented anti-lock brakes. The further north he had travelled, the worse the roads got until he began to doubt whether he'd reach his destination at all. At least the sun was above the horizon now and had been for almost two hours. And it was nearly 11 o'clock.  
  
After sitting down to hot tea and a ham and cheddar sandwich, Sean resigned himself to more travelling. He took another reading and was pleased to note he was almost as far north as he needed to go, but still had to journey a ways west. If he hadn't known Viggo was at the end of the road, he would have turned back before sunrise. He got change from the cashier at the diner, the map said that A87 was a toll road, and headed west.  
  
Two hours of travel found Sean within mere tenths of his coordinates. When the GPS locator read 57.2816, -5.7071 he decided to look for a place to pull off the motorway and park the car. He found a narrow road leading off to the right about 50 yards ahead and swung the big car onto the path, grateful it was paved. Getting stuck in the snow was at the bottom of his list of things to do, right next to getting lost.  
  
Despite pulling on the heaviest jumper he had with him, zipping his anorak and pulling on his gloves, he was still cold. The wind off the sea was biting and within minutes his nose was running and his feet were getting numb. About half a mile from where he'd left the BMW he found himself in a car park surrounded on three sides by woods. The tower of an old church could be seen easily through the leafless trees and judging from the GPS unit, that was his destination.  
  
He stood in the car park for a few moments, debating whether to walk back down the road and drive up, praying that the car wouldn't become mired; walk back, retrieve the gifts and carry them back; or just proceed up to the door. From where he stood, he could be at the church in under a minute. Given the conditions, that seemed to be the most reasonable choice.  
  
It was silent, other than the wind and the sound of snow crunching under his boots, and was completely devoid of people. There were no footprints leading through the snow, nothing that would explain why he was here, at an abandoned church during a snowstorm. Sean's gloved hand tried working the doorknob and found it locked. He stood on the topmost step and took another reading. The numbers matched exactly the ones he had been given in Wellington. That's when he remembered the keys.  
  
He trudged back to the car, nearly falling in the process. Viggo must have forgotten that it was winter in January, and very winter in Scotland. Couldn't this have waited for Easter or his birthday, whichever came first? The first thaw?  
  
The BMW was still warm on the inside, thanks to the fan that kept heat from the engine circulating in the passenger compartment. Sean blew his nose, then wondered aloud who was the crazier; Viggo for sending him here at this time of year, or himself for actually showing up. He started the car, intending to see how far up the road he could manage to get before the worst happened and was pleasantly surprised when it didn't.  
  
He pulled the car as close to the building as he could; not worrying about things like parking stalls, then extracted the requisite items from the back seat. Watching every footfall, he made his way cautiously back to the door of the church. He swore at himself for failing to take the keys out of the box in which they had come, reluctant to put down the other items he was carrying for fear they'd somehow get ruined. No help for it, he thought, so he walked back to the car again, pulled open the car door and set everything down.  
  
He picked up the box with the keys and pulled out the set. There were at least fifteen keys, eight of which were possible keys to the door of the church. Squinting, he looked at the back and front of each key to see if there was some hint to tell him which one, if any, would fit in the door. He narrowed it down to the three stamped "Not For Duplication," gathered up the boxes and made his way back to the door for the third time that afternoon.  
  
It was the second of the three that worked in the lock. The very first thing Sean noticed upon entering the building was the heat. It was blessedly warm in the vestibule. He stamped the snow off his boots, set the packages on a wooden bench inside the front door, pulled off his gloves and slipped out of his anorak, hanging it neatly on a nearby peg. He stood for a moment, letting the warmth sink into his skin, closing his eyes for a moment to let the stress of the last two days bleed off. He peered through a large double paned window opening into the church and stepped inside to explore further.

 

 

* * * **_January, 2004 Communion_** * * *  
  
It was surprisingly well lit in the nave. The walls, plastered in white tending toward grey, seemed to be a source of light unto themselves. Sean glanced around and noticed the presence of no one, not even Viggo. Old wooden pews filled a quarter of the nave and he started walking towards them. As he headed up the aisle, he felt again that welcome sense of sanctuary, a spiritual homecoming of sorts. He set the boxes down in the last pew and continued up the aisle.  
  
He wandered through the church, looking at the stained glass, the patterns the light cast on the stone floor. He paused at the end of the first bay near the first row of pews, eyes focussed on the window over the place where the altar had once stood, letting his soul fill the space around him, allowing the peace the silence afforded to soothe him.  
  
Viggo had been waiting. He had driven up several days before and had spent his time putting up the finishing touches that turned the rectory into an inviting home for his partner. The furnishings were chosen with Sean in mind, but Viggo had found it impossible to refrain from adding a dash of his own personality. The walls had been painted in _Viggo Whimsy,_ a colour scheme of his own design, seemingly a direct descendent of _Woodstock_ _, Circa 1969_.  
  
After spending the better part of the morning in the tower with a thermos of maté and a couple of blankets for warmth, Viggo's heart leapt into triple time when he spotted Sean's car on the turn-out to the church. The moment was now at hand. It was time, at last, to see how Sean had fit the pieces of the puzzle together, to discover what conclusions he'd drawn. And Viggo was suddenly unsure if he really wanted to know.  
  
After descending a stairway in dire need of repair, Viggo leaned in the doorway of the vestibule, much like Sean had years ago when he had taken the photograph. He watched as Sean moved slowly from place to place as though testing the waters, and wished he could see Sean's face. Sean arrived back at the first bay and stood once again before the window. He turned slowly, admiring the vaulted ceiling and therefore did not immediately notice Viggo standing, watching him from the back of the church.  
  
Viggo saw it again, that same Mona Lisa expression on Sean's face, the same one that had driven him to do all the insane things he had done for the past four years, the one that he was afraid he would never see again except in the photograph that he carried in his wallet and had captured in silk.  
  
"How long have you been there?" Sean questioned as he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure shedding layers of clothing as he stepped fully inside.  
  
"Does it matter?" Viggo responded softly, unwilling to shatter the quiet of the space that Sean had created with his presence. "I know you have the keys; where did you put the other things?" Sean started down the nave to the pew where he had set the gifts Viggo had given him. As Sean headed toward the vestibule, packages in hand, Viggo flipped a switch causing the glass in the vestibule window to retract into the wall.  
  
Viggo took the large mahogany box from Sean, pulled a key out of his pocket and extracted the portrait. He set it very carefully into window, a secured display case actually, then raised the glass back into position. Sean's image could now be seen from both inside and outside the nave.  
  
Sitting down in the last pew next to Sean and taking both of Sean's hands in his own, Viggo turned to look at the embroidery at the back of the church, willing Sean to remember where they had been when Viggo had taken it. He took a deep breath. "Do you remember our trip to the South Island?" Viggo asked.  
  
Sean fidgeted and pulled back his hands, surprising them both. Viggo was leading up to something and Sean wasn't certain this was a road he wanted to travel. "Aye," he replied cautiously. "It were the beginning, at least for me. Once I'd gotten us all worked out in me head." Sean paused for a deep breath. "Viggo…"  
  
"Let me talk for a bit," Viggo interrupted. "I know the trip to the Island made you nervous. I knew there was something happening between us but I didn't want to push. And when you said, as only you could, 'I have friends or I have lovers and I'll not straddle the fence with you,' I'd have paid any sum to have a peek at your dreams to find out what side of the fence I was on." He shook his head. "Then I kissed you goodnight and thought I'd ruined everything."  
  
"I remember," Sean whispered. "You've no idea how many times I stood outside your door that night too afraid to knock, not knowing whether I'd be hoping you'd answer or praying you wouldn't." What was Viggo leading up to?  
  
"The next day, when I wandered into the old church we found on the South Island and you followed? Remember the church?" Viggo glanced back at the portrait. "You stood behind me, wrapped your arms around me and just rested your head on my shoulder for a while. We stood like that for a long time, until I told you I wanted to burn some film before we left. Do you recall what you said afterwards?"  
  
Sean barely remembered the church, much less any ensuing conversation, but he had a vivid recollection of just holding on to Viggo, as though he were the only thing that made any sense. The days after he admitted to himself the depth of his attraction to Viggo, both physical and emotional, had been spent in a maelstrom of confused thought. He had retreated pretty far into himself for a while, seeking solace in quiet moments both alone and with Viggo, welcoming the respite from his thoughts sitting in that old church had provided. The point of that space, he believed, was to not think.  
  
"You said everyone needs a space like this to allow their souls to be free," Viggo said, gesturing at the ceiling, "unfettered by the cares of the world, of getting through each day, until they regained a sense of peace. The soul needs space to soar, to heal, to restore itself until it is ready once again to pick up its burdens and continue the journey of being." Sean remembered saying something like that, then hadn't spoken again for several hours. "You were in a contemplative mood and I knew you were wrestling with the thought of us, with the idea that there could be an 'us.' Except for the time we spent in the church. You were at peace then."  
  
"I like churches," Sean said with an embarrassed shrug. "There's just something about them. I've not thought about it. It's like trying to figure out why you don't like chip butties." Or figure out what any of this has to do with anything, he thought, knowing he was a captive audience until Viggo had gotten everything he wanted to say out of his system.  
  
Viggo rolled his eyes and walked over to the portrait. "I look at this photograph every single day, try to step into your mind and figure out what you were thinking, what you were feeling, standing in that doorway." He quickly found himself lost in the image, comparing the Sean of then to the Sean he had come to know so well.  
  
"You know this was a throw-away shot? There were three of you on the front of that roll. In the first one you were looking away. The other one I cut off half your head. But this one." His voice trailed off. "I haven't found a word for this expression. Wistful? Melancholy? Longing? Regret? They all seem to be there, except in your eyes. Your eyes seem as bewildered as a child's."  
  
Sean did not provide an answer, one did not seem necessary at any rate. He could do no better at naming the emotion; all of them and none of them were right. "Viggo, why are we here? We could have had this conversation at home. If you wanted to know about the photograph, well, I can't explain it any more than you can. It was a moment in time, luv, when I knew and understood far less than I do now."  
  
Viggo smiled at him and Sean thought that if anyone was a living picture of 'enigmatic,' it was Viggo. "Sean, where are you right now?"  
  
Did he need to provide a literal answer? A spiritual answer? A metaphor? This was one of those Viggo questions that seemed so simple on the surface but had far too many possible answers. "I am on holy ground, in a place that was designed to bring peace, a sanctuary if you will, to souls in need of it, somewhere west of the middle of nowhere in the dead of winter. And I still don't know why."  
  
"This is your space, Sean. The space you said everyone should have, the place to come when you need respite from the cares of the world, from the pressure of being you. A place where you just are." Viggo picked up the keys, placed them in Sean's hand and closed his fingers over them. "This church, this space, this holy ground as you put it, belongs to you."  
  
"What are you saying?" Sean whispered, suddenly not trusting himself to speak.  
  
Picking up the third gift, Viggo walked to the end of the first bay and stood in the space that Sean seemed to like best, opened the box and began to read. "We've left shore somehow become the friends of early theory," paused for breath, then held it as Sean continued in the smooth, cultured accent Viggo could never quite manage. Sean's voice filled the church, easily, profoundly, giving wings to words etched in silver.  
  
"…that had me shaking in the unlit Anglican doorway." Sean turned and stared at the portrait again, pieces that had eluded him finally falling into place. He continued, reciting from memory until he got to the end, when his voice broke, "…for fear it'll become words, just words." He turned back and looked at Viggo, stunned to see tears welling up in Viggo's clear blue eyes.  
  
"Viggo? Talk to me, luv." Sean said, approaching slowly, watching as his mate wiped at his eyes and sniffed. "Tell me why we are here, in the space, with these things." He glanced at the keys still clutched in his hand and examined the white tree, uncertain how it fit exactly, but knowing it did.  
  
Viggo shuddered, trying to collect himself, but he was overwhelmed. "I love you, Sean. Body, mind, heart and soul. As completely as I've ever loved anyone."  
  
Sean froze in his tracks at Viggo's words, feeling the impact of each one of them deep in his chest. He couldn't breathe, couldn't even blink away the sudden moisture filling his eyes. "What…what?" His fingers ran through his hair, more to make certain he was awake than to ensure it hadn't gone missing. "What?"  
  
Viggo pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped at his nose. "It's all here. All the pieces you ran all over the world to collect. Body…" he gestured towards the back of the church. "Mind," he managed through a throat suddenly too small for speech, holding up a piece of silver. "I hope you know that it was written for you, despite that _bloom of compassion_ line."  
  
"Keys to your heart?" Sean asked thickly. Somehow it seemed fitting that the keys to Viggo's heart would actually fit in a…Sean's heart took an unexpected twist. In a doorway. A doorway to a church, a picture taken inside a doorway. Keys, doors, doorways. In Viggo's mind it must have made a certain kind of sense—and Sean knew better than to delve too deeply.  
  
"And soul," Viggo added, holding out his hands palms up. "This church...the church is yours to do with as you will." Viggo looked so vulnerable that Sean's heart ached for him. "It was how I could best tell you I love you."  
  
"I was wrong, Sean, so very wrong." Viggo's voice broke as tears started to flow despite his efforts. "I love you so much that I can scarcely bear it. I know I told you that I didn't believe in 'I love you's' but I was wrong. I know how hard it's been for you to not say it, and I'm sorry." Viggo raised his tear-streaked face to Sean. "Forgive me."  
  
Sean couldn't speak. Nothing could have prepared him for Viggo's confession and found himself rubbing his hand over his face again and again. "There is nothing to forgive," he murmured, gathering Viggo into his arms. "I know you love me. And as much as I've wanted to say the words to you, I knew it could wait until you were ready to hear it." As Sean held him, he could feel Viggo's heart hammering in his chest every bit as hard as his own.  
  
Viggo rested his head on Sean's shoulder, then began to speak softly. "To have and to hold, from this day forth, forsaking all others, 'til death us do part."  
  
Sean went rigid for a moment as Viggo began to recite the traditional marriage vows and he squeezed his eyes shut against them. Three times had he uttered such words; three times had he failed disastrously. Yet here in his church was the one person he loved more than all others saying words he never thought he'd hear again.  
  
"Viggo," Sean began, waiting until his daft mate met his gaze. "I love you, have loved you, will always love you, but I'll not say those words here. We're more likely to be cursed than blessed if the past is any measure. Besides," he added with a crooked grin, "it's not a proper marriage without rings and dried out cake, or so I've been told."  
  
At which Viggo merely nodded and smiled through his tears.


End file.
